


When Bear Stepped Clear of Bear

by crushcandles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Cat Potion Kink, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Painplay, Sensory Deprivation, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27262855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushcandles/pseuds/crushcandles
Summary: The nameless things Geralt wants and needs don’t have much of a place in his life until Jaskier shows up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Other(s)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 297





	When Bear Stepped Clear of Bear

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Monkey & Bear](https://youtu.be/thAunSuinVc) by Joanna Newsom. Thanks to [candybarrnerd](https://candybarrnerd.tumblr.com/)/[icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight) for taking the time to help me whip this into shape. I’m also incredibly grateful to all the kindness and conversation SG!anon over on tumblr has treated me to while I worked on this. Couldn’t have done it without you!

To Geralt’s dismay, the boy – and it’s obvious he really is a boy, now that Geralt's seen him in the light and heard his air-filled bluster – works on his ridiculous song the whole walk to the next town. He seems to like the first few lines that came out of his mouth, but comes up short not long after he sings them. When he can’t figure out the right next line, he starts muttering to himself instead, kicking a stone down the road. At one point, he produces a tiny notebook and quill from somewhere and starts writing, walking in a wobbly, distracted line beside Roach. 

Thankfully, he's not singing when they get to the next town, has his lute and his book out of sight. 

"I'm hungry," he says, looking up at Geralt beseechingly.

"Sorry to hear that," Geralt says, not bothering to look down. 

The boy points to the inn that’s across the road.

"I've been there before," he says. "The food is good and fairly-priced."

Geralt's been to that inn as well. He remembers the thickness of the ale and the look of the roof's thatching, seen past a man's shoulder. He doesn't remember if he ate any food. 

The boy's already crossing the road. Geralt decides he isn't following him; he just happens to be going to the same place. He ties Roach next to a grey mare with the tip of her ear missing and sad eyes. When he strokes her nose, it's velvety and she snuffles into his palm.

"Well, aren't you sweet?" Geralt murmurs. He puts his other hand on Roach's shoulder to scratch the place that's always itchy so she’s not jealous. 

"Could say the same about you," a deep voice says. Geralt drops his hands, turning. Leaned in the doorway is a man, tall, with a body like a battleaxe. He has blond hair, shaggy to his ears, and stubble to match, bright in the sun. On one of his arms is a tattoo of a snake, its head severed by a scar. When he smiles, it's predatory, powerful. 

"Don't I know you?" he asks, looking Geralt over. 

The last time Geralt was here, this man pressed that tattoo of a snake to Geralt's throat and held him like that until he thought he’d pass out. 

"I don't know," Geralt says, as he approaches the man and the door. "Maybe," he says, as he passes by.

Inside the inn, it's dark and warm and lively, throbbing with conversation. The smell of food immediately surrounds him, his stomach grumbling in response. The boy is already there, sitting at a table in the back. He brightens when he sees Geralt, raising his hand. There's nowhere else to sit that isn't a person's lap, so Geralt winds through to sit down across from him. 

"I ordered you an ale and roast chicken," the boy says. "I figured you're hungry too. All that fighting."

"How are you going to pay for that?" Geralt asks him. It isn't a question of hunger; Geralt's always hungry. He doesn't always have enough coin to eat though.

The boy shrugs. "It's fine. It'll work out." Even in the unflattering light of a smoky inn, his skin is clear, his smile shining. Geralt has little doubt that his youth and beauty allow him a lot of leeway in the world. 

The boy leans over to dig in his bag. Over his shoulder, the man from the doorway comes inside, scanning the room. His eyes skim over the boy's bent form like he's smoke, nothing, but catch on Geralt like a fire. He's standing near the stairwell leading to the rooms above. He holds up a hand, three fingers raised. He nods to the stairwell, lifting his eyebrows. 

Geralt nods back at him. Not every hunger requires coin to sate it. 

"Now," the boy says, filling Geralt's vision again with his sweet smile and skinny shoulders. He has his notebook and quill out on the table. On the page is the few lines he sang over and over. "First thing's first, my friends call me Jaskier, but my name is –”

Geralt ignores him, sliding out of his seat. 

"You stay here," he tells the boy as he leaves, following the man up the dark stairwell.

*

They meet in the third room, crashing into the door to close it. The door shudders in its frame, and so does Geralt when the man gets both of his wrists and grinds them into the door above their heads. 

"I remember you now," the man murmurs, nose against Geralt's jaw. Geralt closes his eyes at the curl of warm breath over his skin, waiting for the inevitable. _Witcher_ , the man will say. _White Wolf_ , or any of the other, stupider, meaner things people call him. 

The man licks the bottom of Geralt's earlobe. 

"You like it rough, don't you?" the man asks. His mouth slips down against Geralt's neck, not a kiss. His teeth are so close to Geralt's skin.

Desire surges through Geralt, pulling his hips away from the door, flexing his wrists in the man's hands to feel just how little he can move them. 

"Yes," he says.

The man bites Geralt's neck so hard Geralt's fingers start to make the sign for _Aard_ reflexively. But he manages to catch it before he can finish the motion, splaying his fingers instead. 

“That’s what I like to hear,” the man says, tongue on Geralt’s pulse. “How rough can a witcher handle it?”

“More than you could give me,” Geralt growls, breath guttering when the man bites him again. The man drags Geralt off the door, spinning him with rough hands. 

Geralt lands on the floor on his elbows and knees with such a loud sound they might hear it in the tavern below. 

_Good,_ he thinks as the man’s foot grinds down on his shoulder. It’s the last clear thought he has for a while.

*

Geralt comes down the stairs alone and heads straight out the front door. He got what he came for.

He's already on Roach and pointed toward the road out of town when the inn's door bangs open behind him and the boy yells after him, "Wait! Wait! Where are you going?"

"Leaving," Geralt tosses over his shoulder. He doesn’t care if the boy hears him so he doesn't bother yelling. 

The boy squawks. "Wait!" he hollers. "Will you just stop!"

Geralt stops. But he doesn't look back. He can hear the boy stumbling back inside the inn as clear as seeing him. After a few seconds, Geralt closes his eyes to better concentrate on the pull on his muscles, the pulse of his bruises. It's sunny out, but Geralt's cold, even back in his armour. 

The boy scrambles up to him, panting. Geralt opens his eyes to the sight of him, pack slung hastily over his shoulder, banging into Filavandrel's lute, a fabric sack cradled in his arms. The colour is high on his cheeks and his eyebrows are drawing down. 

"Are you alright?" he asks. His voice is too loud. In case Geralt isn't sure what he's talking about, he points at Geralt's face, at the bruise on his cheek, the bite-mark on his throat. 

"I'm fine," Geralt says, annoyed at having his fragile inner peace broken. 

"That doesn't look very fine," the boy argues. 

"Feels fine," Geralt tells him. Then, in hopes of shutting him up: "I asked for it."

As expected, the boy's mouth drops open, his eyes going big as bowls. His eyes race all over Geralt, but there's nothing else for him to see. Geralt's covered up, even has his gloves on to protect his scraped knuckles. Once he turns up nothing, the boy closes his mouth. 

He opens it a second later to ask, "Why?"

"Because I felt like it," Geralt says, just to be difficult. 

The boy's sweet, naive face pulls into a puzzled expression. "Okay," he starts, "but—"

"No more questions. I'm leaving. If you go west you’ll get to Vengerberg."

The boy's chest puffs. "You don’t need to tell me. I know where I'm going."

Geralt rolls his eyes. "Good for you." He puts his heels into Roach. They barely make it ten feet before the boy yells, "Wait!" again. 

Roach grunts in annoyance at being stopped again. Geralt knows the feeling. 

The boy jogs up to him. He holds up the sack towards Geralt. 

"Will you at least take this?" he asks, face begging like a new puppy.

Geralt takes it by the knot, mindful of his stinging knuckles. He drops it between his thighs on the saddle. Whatever's inside crinkles a bit. "What is it?"

"Chicken," the boy says, still looking up hopefully.

"Ah." He can smell it now, and feel the warmth against the inside of his thigh. 

The boy smiles. "Don't worry," he assures Geralt, "I paid for it."

"Ah," Geralt says again. When the boy doesn't offer him anything else or any more objections, he picks up the reins again. "Thanks, Jaskier," he says as he leaves the boy standing in front of the inn, hopeful and empty-handed.

*

He doesn't get to the package until it's almost nightfall. Turns out the forest beyond the village runs thick with arachas, and a pack of them had done their best to dispatch Roach. It'd been a long afternoon of killing, followed immediately by a break to make some potions and salve from the remnants of the monsters.

He doesn't get to sit down until that's done, and Roach has a thick coating of salve on the deep scratch on her shoulder. He's lucky he didn't lose her, considering how slow he'd been to react to the ambush. He should have heard the skittering well before he did, too busy concentrating on sitting upright despite the nag of his other injuries. 

But it's over now, and he once again knows better. Being alone on the Path and getting hurt for pleasure are not good bedfellows. Difficult to remember that when the opportunity presents itself though. 

"Foolish," Geralt tells himself as he sits down on a log in front of the fire. His thighs and hips pull, from both the rough treatment from the man and the monsters, but he doesn't let himself enjoy it much. It's over now, and the lingering aches are more of a reminder of the consequences of letting his guard down than the pleasure of a tumble. 

He gets the sack from the boy out of his bag, pulling his gloves off with his teeth. He picks open the knot on the cloth and pulls out the chicken. It's wrapped in a layer of parchment to guard against grease. Geralt pulls that off and tosses it into the fire.

The chicken is cold now, and soft-skinned despite the parchment, but Geralt is hungry enough that it doesn't matter. He eats quickly, hunched over, his raw knuckles throbbing, the bootprint on his back burning.

*

He stays in the area for a while, taking on the job of cleaning up the arachas infestation for a hefty fee. He doesn't see the boy around, but he does hear of him. Just about every coin he's given comes with a line from the boy's song either hummed or sung. It's the friendliest people have been to him for years.

He doesn't see the boy again until he's gone west himself, to Vizima. He's in a tavern, heavy with drink and losing badly at cards to a man he intends to sleep with when a bright, sweet face tips into his vision.

"Oh, hello," Jaskier says, like they’re old friends, not strangers, and this isn't the first time Geralt's seeing him in months. 

"What are you doing here?" Geralt grunts, playing a card on the table. The man across from him places a better one on the table, raising an eyebrow as Jaskier bullies his way into the seat next to Geralt. There isn’t space for him, but Jaskier slides in anyway, ending up so close he's pressed tight against Geralt, practically sitting in Geralt's lap.

"Same thing you are: drinking!" Jaskier raises his goblet. The corners of his lips are purple and he smells like wine. He leans over the table. "I'm Jaskier."

The man plays another card. Geralt can't win now. 

"Eidir," the man says. To Geralt he murmurs, "Have you lost?"

"Yes." Geralt drops all his cards on the pile. He pulls his gloves off while he's at it. It's hot in here, and he wants to remind Eidir what he's winning, which isn’t his gloves. The gloves are thick brown leather work gloves, made to handle striking fangs and potion splashback, so it's not much of a show but once Geralt’s got them off he sees Eidir subtly admiring his fingers anyway. And when Geralt turns his wrist, Eidir licks his lips at the sight of the inside of Geralt’s wrist, where he’ll bruise under the right force. 

Jaskier worms an elbow on the table so he can rest his cheek on his fist. He sips his wine and then asks, "What are we playing?"

"I'm not playing with you," Eidir says bluntly, only looking at Geralt. "You should go home."

"What?" Jaskier says, too tipsy or naive to see what's happening around him. "No. I only just found Geralt. I'm not going anywhere."

Eidir fixes his dark eyes on Jaskier, but Jaskier's smiling blithely at Geralt, swirling the wine in his goblet. 

The easiness Geralt had been feeling from the drink and the promise of spending the night with Eidir hardens when Eidir turns his stern look on Geralt. 

"Do you know this one?" he asks Geralt, gesturing with a large, rough hand. It's obvious from his tone that this isn’t so much a question as it is a test, with his opinion of Geralt in the balance. 

"We faced a band of bloodthirsty elves together!" Jaskier tips his wine to Geralt before taking a drink. Eidir raises his eyebrows. 

"They weren't bloodthirsty," Geralt corrects. "Just desperate."

Eidir nods along at that, but collects his own gloves off the table anyway. 

"Well," he says. "I'll leave you to catch-up then." He gets up from the table, the hand Geralt had hoped to have wrapped around his wrist soon wrapped around the hilt of his sword instead, and leaves with pausing or looking back. 

Jaskier hikes a thumb at Eidir's quickly disappearing back. "D'you know him?"

"No," Geralt sighs.

*

He can't leave Jaskier alone in this vagabond tavern in Vizima, and he chases after no man, no matter how imposing the stature, so they stay. Almost immediately, Jaskier gathers up the cards and shuffles them together.

"I'll play with you," he says, handing the deck to Geralt, "if you teach me." 

Jaskier loses badly at cards, but he does so gracefully and with good humour. He talks the whole time, about what he's been doing since Dol Blathanna: charming lesser royalty, sleeping in barns, and playing that song to anyone who wants to hear it, which turns out to be everyone. 

"And you," he finally asks, taking a drink of wine and wiping his mouth on his wrist, "what have you been doing?"

Geralt puts a card down. He has two left to Jaskier's twelve. He shrugs. "Hunting things."

Jaskier has the wine-purple tip of his tongue between his lips, studying his losing hand, so he says nothing. To fill the silence Geralt continues. 

"Mostly arachas," he says. Jaskier glances up and nods for him to go on, so he says, "They're an arachnid. About the size of wolves."

Wide-eyed, distracted at the thought of that, Jaskier puts down a card Geralt could win on. 

"Did you get hurt?" he presses, leaning in so far Geralt can see exactly how horrible his cards are. 

"Not really. Roach did though."

"No!" 

"She's alright," Geralt says, and draws a card he doesn't actually need so they can keep playing.

*

Eventually, it's too late to go on. Geralt's out of coin for drink and Jaskier's too terrible at cards for it to be fun to make him lose anymore. 

They come out into the night air together. Jaskier stretches long, palms to the sky. He smells like wine and sweat and faint fire-smoke, oddly homey. 

"Where are you sleeping?" he asks.

"Over there," Geralt says, nodding to the darkness over the hill. 

"You have no room?" 

"No. They're overpriced here."

Jaskier laughs, louder than the joke necessitates. 

"I'll walk you there," he says, just as unnecessary. His face is pink. 

It's not far, but it doesn't take long for the night to swallow up the sounds of the tavern behind them until it's just their boots on the grass as they climb up the hill. Jaskier stops at the top, looking up at the deepness of the sky, marked by spots of stars. 

"Wow," he says, marvelling open-mouthed. "It's beautiful. I don't like sleeping outside very much, but it's a good view."

"Mmhmm." Geralt watches Jaskier's breath rising from his between his lips in a thick curl. 

Jaskier tips his head forward to see Geralt instead of the stars. "It's cold outside at night. Don't you get cold?"

"Sometimes," Geralt says.

Jaskier draws his cloak tighter around his body as they head down the hill to where Geralt’s meagre camp is. Feeling as though he should be hospitable, Geralt casts _Igni_ into the cold fire pit. There’s nowhere to sit, but Jaskier goes straight to Roach anyway.

“Hello,” he says sweetly. “Do you remember me?”

Roach flicks her ear at Jaskier, and doesn’t complain when he puts light fingers on the smooth groove of scar tissue on her shoulder. 

“Poor girl,” he murmurs, stroking her scar once before petting over her neck. “I hope Geralt was nice to you after your sacrifice. Part of the fee is yours, you know.”

He says it to Roach, but he’s already turning to Geralt, smiling at his own joke.

“I take care –” Geralt starts to say, and then stops when Jaskier puts his palm on Geralt's cheek. Despite the coolness of the night, his hands are warm against Geralt’s skin. He has just that for a moment before Jaskier kisses him. His mouth is warm too, wine-soaked and gentle.

He's quick to slick his tongue over Geralt's lower lip through, and quick to put his tongue inside when Geralt opens his mouth. He presses up and in, so their mouths connect better and Geralt can feel his body, light and lean, against Geralt’s front. 

His hand slips off Geralt's cheek, trailing down Geralt's arm to Geralt's cold bare wrist. His fingers wrap around and squeeze. His other hand rises too, tangling his fingers with Geralt's. His hands are so warm they burn. 

Geralt pulls back, taking a deep, bracingly-cold breath. 

"What are you doing?" he asks, sounding rougher than he intends to with his lungs full of cold air. 

Jaskier's eyes focus slowly. He takes his own deep breath and his hands slip away from Geralt's.

"I thought," he says uncertainly. "We could..."

Feeling wound up and off-balance from Eidir leaving and this kiss and his cold wrists, Geralt says, "No, no. We shouldn't."

Jaskier steps away from him, hunching, fussing with his cuffs. "Oh. I thought, since you were...so nice, you wanted to."

If that's all it takes, then Geralt feels sorry for Jaskier, and sorry he had to waste his evening with Geralt. 

"Sorry," Geralt says helplessly.

Jaskier rubs his jaw, as if Geralt hit him. "Well, um, there's a barn cat that's probably waiting up for me." He smiles bravely at Geralt, red across his nose and his cheeks. "Hopefully I'll see you soon."

At a loss, Geralt nods. Jaskier turns and starts off toward the hill again. Geralt waits until Jaskier’s silhouette crests the top of the hill and blends away into the darkness before he makes for his bed of cold grass. 

*

Geralt leaves Vizima and Jaskier behind early the next morning, but barely two weeks later, he runs into Jaskier again on the road going south to Maribor. Jaskier doesn't ask to join him, just falls into step beside Roach. For a while he stays shy, sneaking looks at Geralt like he expects to be mocked for his forwardness.

Geralt wouldn't, but Jaskier doesn't know that. He doesn’t know Geralt at all.

Finally, Geralt reaches into the saddlebag closest to his left knee, fishing around until he finds what he's looking for.

"You like wine?" he asks, already dropping the flask.

It's not a graceful catch, but Jaskier manages to get his hands on the wine without dropping it. He looks at Geralt, bewildered, but works the cork out, raising the flask to his face.

"Oh," he says when he smells it, pleasure at the vintage overtaking his shyness. "Yes, yes I do."

*

They're together for the better part of three months. Jaskier keeps swearing he needs to go to this city or that village and he'll leave as soon as they finish what hunt they're in the middle of, but then that hunt ends and another begins and he's still around. 

He watches Geralt. Geralt's back, when Geralt lets him help on the hunts, but also Geralt’s regular work: weapon maintenance, mending, and potion-making, which he's especially keen on.

"What's that?" he asks, hands holding his cheeks so they're chubby like a child's.

"Cat," Geralt replies, stirring patiently. 

Jaskier leans in a little. "Is that what makes your eyes...?" He blinks showily at Geralt, as if that makes his pretty, light eyes look more like Geralt’s. 

"No. It lets me see better in the dark."

"Bet that's helpful for vampires," Jaskier says, impressed. He leans in further and gets a face full of fumes for his curiosity. He recoils so fast he almost falls off the rock he's sitting on, letting out a hacking cough at the acridity of the potion. 

“Hmm,” Geralt says so he doesn’t laugh.

*

He spends the night in the woods hunting vampires, and comes back at dawn limping. Jaskier’s dozing in front of the fire, wrapped in his cloak, half-burnt stick dangling from his fingers. He startles awake when Geralt drops his sword and crossbow, and startles again when he sees the blood dripping down Geralt’s side. 

“Oh no. No no no.” He jumps up, stick clattering to the dirt, and starts towards Geralt, hands out to help.

He stops when he catches sight of Geralt’s face. The Cat potion that’s still lingering in Geralt’s blood lets him see the fear and confusion on Jaskier’s face in painstaking, clear-as-day detail. For a moment, Geralt thinks something is wrong, but then he remembers what Cat does to him: the pale skin, the web of toxic veins, the blank black eyes. 

Jaskier takes a step back. “Are you – did they...?” His hands are still out, palms up, but ready to try and hold Geralt back if he attacks.

"No," Geralt says, bloody gloves slipping on the bloody buckles on his bloody armour. "It's the Cat."

Geralt can see the words filtering through Jaskier’s sleep-addled brain and it takes Jaskier a moment to decode them, but then his brow smoothes, and he nods. His hands reach out for Geralt again, although conflict is still clear on his face.

"Are you very hurt?" he asks softly, as if speaking too loudly will cause Geralt harm. "Let me help you."

Geralt waves him off, blood drops raining on the dirt between them. He pulls off one sopping glove after another and drops them on the ground so he can actually get out of his armour. 

"Don't," he tells Jaskier. "None of this blood is safe for you to touch." Neither vampire blood nor Geralt's own toxin-filled blood will be kind to Jaskier. 

He drops his armour on the ground beside his ruined gloves. He grunts as he peels his shirt away from the wound. There's vampire blood in it, burning the raw flesh. 

"What should I do then?" Jaskier asks hesitantly. 

Focused on the pain and the blood, Geralt says, "Just keep watch."

For once, Jaskier does as he's told, putting wood on the fire to keep the chill and the darkness away and then sitting down again. He stays quiet while Geralt strips down to his skin and mops as much blood off as he can with the water they have in camp, although Geralt sees him watching Geralt more than he's keeping a true watch. His eyes move from scar to scar, wonder and sympathy at war on his face. He flinches when Geralt, kneeling nude in the dirt next to the fire, stitches his own wounds up. 

After, once Geralt's marshalled his shaky hands into dressing in new clothes, he sits down not far from Jaskier. 

Jaskier leans forward eagerly, even though he has dark marks under his eyes from the long night. "Can I help you now?"

Geralt shrugs, and then regrets the motion when his side splits with pain. "What do I need help with now?"

Jaskier considers it, and then gets up. He skirts around the bloody, stinking pile of Geralt's things to get to the saddlebags. He brings back a flat package and his lute. 

"Here," he says, handing Geralt the package. "It'll be dry but I'll go get some more water once it's not so dark." He looks at the sky to check the dawn's slow progress before sitting down again, lute in his lap.

The package is a wrapped wheat cake, bound with honey and berries. It's dense, more sticky than dry, and it's very sweet, the kind of treat Jaskier buys for himself when he can afford it. 

Geralt eats the whole thing, ravenous from fighting and blood-loss. After, he licks his fingers clean as he watches Jaskier pluck notes out of the air to make a new song.

*

Years later, there's a whore in a brothel he pays for as many days of her time as he can. She's strong and not afraid to scratch and bite him, but that isn’t enough for him. Knowing that, what he really pays her for her words. Once he gets her to understand what he wants from her, she calls him weak, mewling, selfish. It's so much to take it feels paralyzing. He doesn't know what to do when it's over, when she's petting his scars and singing about vampires to him. He feels cold and strange and restless, even though she barely hurt him at all.

*

Jaskier hunts him down while he's near Cintra, searching for the trail leading to the selkiemore’s nest. 

"I have something for us to do."

"I'm currently already doing something," Geralt says, shading his eyes and surveying the wet field. There must be a trail somewhere.

"My thing is more important," Jaskier insists, standing too close to Geralt. He looks good, hair long on his forehead, mouth wet from his compulsive licking. They parted months ago on friendly terms after a few hunts and some ridiculous wine-soaked adventures. 

"I'll make sure you get paid," he says. Geralt keeps scanning the long grass. Perhaps he's in the wrong farmer's field.

"Geralt," he says, almost into Geralt's ear. "Please. I need you for this."

Suppressing a shiver, Geralt drops his hand.

"What," he says to the empty field.

Before Jaskier can answer though, there’s a rush of screaming villagers and the howl of the selkiemore from the neighbouring field. Jaskier steps back to let him run by.

“Tell you later!” he calls after Geralt.

*

What Jaskier asks him to do is stupid. Stupid but simple, although the fact that Geralt agrees at all must say something about him. He reasons that it’s one night and such a petty task that it’s impossible for anything of note to happen.

*

Jaskier stands up from his crouch at the end of the bathtub and comes around behind Geralt's shoulders. 

"Now," he says breezily, "do you prefer juniper or honeysuckle?"

His left hand cups the wet crown of Geralt's head, holding it still so he can work on the leather thong holding back his hair. 

Geralt, whiplashed by the turn away from _Here we are_ and his missing clothes to the sensation of Jaskier's fingers plucking, says, "Honeysuckle," without thinking, familiar with it from using it to make White Honey. 

Jaskier hums. "I’d have believed you to be a juniper man. Very strong scent, masculine. Used to make the kind of liquor that you choke on."

He tilts Geralt's head forward so he can see the tie better. Geralt can hear his nails scraping over the leather as he picks at the knot. 

Jaskier gets the purchase he needs while he murmurs, "No shame in honeysuckle though. It's lovely, delicate. Sweet, just like you pretend not to be." Once he has a little give to work with, he slides the leather down Geralt's hair and off. He tosses it back somewhere; Geralt, tuned into everything Jaskier is doing, hears it land wetly. Jaskier gets up and follows it, boots dry and clicking, to the cabinet. He goes through the bottles, humming again. Glass sings on glass, and there's the sound of a knife cutting through a cake of soap. 

Geralt keeps his head down, looking at his thighs, thick and blurry in the greying water. 

Jaskier sets down his things behind Geralt hears him slide the small stool closer, before sitting on it, the wood creaking just a little as he does. A cork pops out of a bottle, and the clear, light smell of honeysuckle fills the air.

Jaskier's palm comes back to the crown of Geralt's head again, slippery with shampoo this time. His other hand dips into the water next to Geralt's waist in a cup to catch some water before it joins in. 

"I can wash my own hair,” Geralt tells his own stomach.

"I'm sure you can," Jaskier agrees, strong hands working up a lather, spreading it to Geralt's temples and then back. "But why bother when I'm already doing it?"

His thumbs dig into the sensitive spaces behind Geralt's ears, circling. Geralt can't think of a reason to make him stop aside from his own pride, but his pride won’t pull his hair back in a way that makes his blood thrum.

Jaskier takes his time with the shampoo, and he’s careful with the bucket when he rinses Geralt’s hair. After, he switches to the soap, dipping it into the water before working it into a rag. He starts scrubbing Geralt's right shoulder, working the muscle with the kind of briskness and ease that comes with practice – on either end of this ritual. He scrubs under Geralt's arms with the kind of firmness that keeps it from tickling and tuts to himself over Geralt's blackened nails in a way that sounds inherited from someone, possibly a family member or a governess.

He scrubs Geralt's hands one after the other and then pushes on Geralt's breastbone with two soapy fingers until Geralt's back hits the wet wood of the tub. 

"Chin up," Jaskier orders, giving the underside of Geralt's chin two taps with his fingers. Geralt tips his head back until his throat is fully exposed. Jaskier wipes the rag down the line presented to him with a light touch that grows firmer as he works his way down to Geralt's chest. He works outwards from Geralt's breastbone, the left side and then the right. His hand is spread wide as he sweeps. Under the rag, Geralt's nipple prickles. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, which is mildewing even in the city's finest inn.

Jaskier washes as far down Geralt's front as he can without hitting the water. Then he touches Geralt's chin again. This time he holds the point of it between his thumb and index finger, guiding Geralt's head level again. 

"Close your eyes," he says, and gives Geralt barely enough time to do so before wiping the rag over Geralt's face. The scentof honeysuckle fills Geralt's nostrils. Under the water his hands work, but there's nothing to grip. He holds still for the few seconds it takes Jaskier to work the rest of the filth off his face. 

Jaskier drops the cloth back into the water when he's done. 

"There," he says when Geralt opens his eyes, water-blind until he blinks. He smiles at Geralt. "Halfway there." He leans forward, getting a look at Geralt's legs in the tub. He can't possibly miss Geralt's half-hard cock in the water, but he doesn't linger, just raises his eyebrows. 

"Can you manage the bottom half?" he asks. "I have to get a few things."

"Yes," Geralt grunts, oddly embarrassed to be asked. This all was Jaskier's idea; he never needed any help. Of course he can wash himself. He’s not a babe or infirm.

"Good," Jaskier says, squeezing Geralt's clean shoulder as he gets up. He leaves through a door into the anteroom, humming to himself.

Geralt could curse him for having the audacity to be this strange mixture of condescending and playful. He could get up at leave. Someone will bring him his clothes, if he asks loudly enough. He could dump the clothes Jaskier set out for both of them in the dirty tub on his way out. 

In the other room, jars and bottles clink on the shelf. Even in the different room, Geralt’s ears are still focused on Jaskier, tuned in to every movement, he hears Jaskier inhale deeply, catches himself drawing in his own breath to as if he could catch the scent from here if only he tried.

Shaking his head at himself, Geralt hauls himself into a crouch, reaching for the soap and the rag. His bottom half isn’t quite so covered in filth, and much of it has already soaked off in the water, so it doesn’t take long for Geralt complete what Jaskier asked him to.

Jaskier doesn’t come back until Geralt’s reclined again in the cooling, soapy water. He has the towel draped over his shoulder again, and a brown pot in hand.

“Done?” he asks brightly, like he wasn’t lurking in the anteroom the whole time. He drags the stool to the side of the tub, putting the brown pot down on it, testing how easily the lid lifts off. 

“Yes,” Geralt says reluctantly, wishing he wasn’t, that he hadn’t been so obedient. Especially when Jaskier pours another bucket of water over his head to wash off the last of the soap.

Jaskier gestures with two fingers. “C’mon then, out.”

He steps back, giving Geralt room to stand on the cold tile, but not enough room to comfortably move past Jaskier without getting him wet. He doesn’t relinquish the towel either, even though Geralt holds out his hand for it.

“Mmm,” Jaskier says after a moment, unimpressed. “Arms out.”

Geralt makes a grab for the towel, but he’s slippery and slow. All he gets is his hand smacked with it.

“Arms out,” Jaskier says again impatiently, towel taut between his fists, ready to snap it at Geralt again. 

“What are you playing at?” Geralt asks as he holds his arms out. 

“I’m not playing,” Jaskier replies, right back to pleasant as he rubs the towel over Geralt’s clenched right fist. “I’m drying you off.”

"Why?" Geralt says, gritty with embarrassment. 

Jaskier ruffles the towel up Geralt's forearm to the moist ditch of his elbow. "Because you're wet. Now why don't you stay still and be as sweet for me as you smell." 

Something that’s the cousin of both shame and lust curls in Geralt’s stomach, and Geralt struggles not to react. If he objects further, or drops his arms or twists away, it'll cause a scene. Geralt knows Jaskier couldn't do much to stop him physically, likely wouldn't even try, but that doesn't mean he'd give up what he wants easily, even if it's something as ludicrous as drying Geralt off.

Geralt shifts on his feet, slowing the progress of Jaskier's towel on his arm, but Geralt keeps his arms held out the way Jaskier wants them. Unsure what else to do, he stares at the wall beyond Jaskier. The bricks are dark grey and boring, no decorative pattern inset in them, nothing outstanding about them at all. He starts counting them to distract himself from the brisk, warming sensation of the towel on the sensitive underside of his bicep.

Like before, Jaskier does both his arms first before moving inward. Geralt makes it to the third row of bricks before Jaskier asks him to close his eyes.

"Huh?" he grunts, semi-startled out of his counting.

Jaskier chuckles, sounding far away. He brings the towel up, cupped between his palms, and Geralt closes his eyes reflexively. The towel covers his face, damp and smelling of honeysuckle and skin, and the soothing weight of Jaskier's fingers behind the towel pat Geralt's face dry. Behind the towel and his eyelids, Geralt can't count bricks, but he keeps a kind of rhythm anyway without really trying.

The towel slips down his face to his neck. It’s still gentle, even when Jaskier presses his knuckle into the vulnerable notch of skin at the base of Geralt's throat. He starts to dry Geralt from the top of his chest to his waist in long, that are careful and firm without lingering. He doesn't talk, even when he wants Geralt to turn around. He just guides Geralt, his damp hand on Geralt's shoulder. The sweeping strokes start again, shoulders to his lower back.

With his eyes still closed, Geralt can't count the bricks, and he finds himself longing for that distraction. Even though Geralt knows he's standing naked and wet in an inn, about to go along with one of Jaskier's stupider schemes, Jaskier right here, drying Geralt off with his own two hands, Geralt feels like he's drifting. Away from his body, away even from most of his mind except for the small, quiet part he doesn't experience often. Certainly not like this. He only ever sees this part when someone reduces him to it, strips him of the rest of himself by force.

"Can I open my eyes?" Geralt asks, needing the bricks, to know where he is.

The towel pauses on Geralt's waist. The air Geralt's breathing feels thin while he waits. He realizes he's squeezing his eyes shut so hard white is creeping in at the edges.

"Mmhmm," Jaskier says. And then, clearer: "Yes."

Geralt opens his eyes and exhales the breath he was holding at the same time. He was wrong to think the air was thin. It's warm and thick from the steam. The lines of the bricks on the wall swim for a moment in the candlelight. He takes another breath and the lines right themselves. Behind him, the towel holds at his lower back, Jaskier steadying himself as he kneels on the wet stone. 

He still doesn't talk, just runs the towel down over Geralt's arse, to his knee. Then again. 

Geralt keeps his eyes on the wall, finding the first brick in the fourth row, adding it to his count. He still has his arms out, even though they his sides are dry. The muscles in his biceps and shoulders feel a little strained, but almost in a good way. He keeps them held out. The pull is a counterpoint to the gentle press of Jaskier's hands drying his legs.

He loses his place when Jaskier's hand sweeps up the inside of his thigh. The towel is between their skin, rough-textured and fairly damp now, but that somehow only serves to deepen the warmth that's been covering Geralt's skin since Jaskier started this task. His thigh flexes under Jaskier's palm, his leg wanting to spread out. Geralt huffs at the urge, looking down automatically. Of course he can't see Jaskier's hand or the towel. All he can see is his own cock, completely hard now, pink with blood and heat, the head crowned from its foreskin.

Seeing it is an anchor. Seeing the evidence of his arousal shocks through his body. He can feel it all now, how cool the air in the room feels against it, the heaviness in his belly that's been building since he was in the bath, how close to his balls the towel is. Jaskier lifts the towel away, but only so he can go up the inside of Geralt's other thigh. Geralt watches his cock twitch at the brief sensation of Jaskier's fingers against the bottom of his arsecheek. The embarrassment of being cared for comes over him again like a swallowed potion: his blood wars hot and cold, his belly going leaden.

Jaskier's hand landing on his hip chills him. It tugs, once, twice. Even though Geralt's feet feel heavy, he moves with Jaskier's hand. There's enough space between Geralt standing in front of the tub and Jaskier kneeling that his erection doesn't hit Jaskier in the face, but it's not that far off. It sways in front of his body, twitching once.

Jaskier doesn't avert his eyes or stand up to get away from it. Geralt keeps his arms up even though he should cover himself. It's too late to hide it. It was too late when he was in the bath. He should look at the wall and its steady pattern of bricks, but he looks down at Jaskier instead.

For a long moment, Jaskier just considers Geralt's erection with a blank look on his face. Geralt can't smell him, only the honeysuckle and the dirty water he left behind. He wears looser trousers than Geralt, so he can’t tell if Jaskier is aroused too or if this is all Geralt.

He waits, full of shame, for Jaskier to get disgusted, or worse, make a joke about the situation. But Jaskier just considers Geralt's cock for another long moment before picking up the towel, running it up the front of Geralt's leg. Geralt is so surprised by it he picks up his foot. Jaskier stays with him though, mopping up the water in the cut of Geralt's thigh. He brings the towel down, picking up his pattern again. 

Throat burning, Geralt brings his eyes to the bricks again, trying to count. But he can't now. He still feels small and separate from himself, but he can't ignore Jaskier's bent head and how close his hands are every time they rise up his thighs. He watches Jaskier hold the towel in the cup of his hand and bring it to Geralt's balls, cupping them too. They rise away from the roughness of the towel but Jaskier follows. The sensation prickles out from that point, although Jaskier pats that skin as gently as he did Geralt's face. Geralt feels his cock leak fresh fluid from the pressure. 

The tumbly, shame-lust is back, scorching through Geralt's stomach. He halfway wishes Jaskier would twist his balls, to make it hurt badly enough to bring him back – to his body. There's no such relief though, just more careful patting.

Finally, Jaskier drops his hand from Geralt's sac, wet towel draped over his lap. Geralt draws in a shaky breath. He's dry and sensitive all over, arms aching from being held out. It feels like they've been in here for hours. He doesn't know how he's supposed to make it through a full evening after this.

Jaskier clears his throat delicately, the noise gentler than Geralt would have thought possible from him. He leans back so he can look up at Geralt better.

"Now," he says, brushing three of his fingers up the underside of Geralt's stiff cock, "to take care of this."

Geralt chokes. His cock feels raw, as if Jaskier rubbed that down with the wet towel. A fresh drop of pre-come clings to his slit. Jaskier watches it with satisfaction as he takes the lid from the brown pot on the stool. He dips the fingers of his right hand in; they come out shining with oil. He rubs his pointer finger against his thumb to wet it too. With the lid off, Geralt can smell the oil. It's flowery, familiar. Chamomile.

Jaskier cups Geralt's balls again, his fingers slick with oil instead of harsh with the towel. He tugs, but still so careful, not painful at all. Jaskier strokes his wet thumb over the seam until Geralt's thighs tense.

"Can you be quiet?" Jaskier asks, his voice low. "This is an inn. We're not alone." He lets Geralt's balls settle into his palm and then squeezes them lightly, leaning in to lick the wet tip of Geralt's cock.

Geralt's mouth drops, as do his arms. His hands find their way to Jaskier's hair, trying to pull the heat of his mouth onto his cock.

Jaskier shakes off his numb hands easily. "No. Hold onto the edge of the tub. Not me."

Geralt groans. His fingers tingle when he wraps them around the edge. He can't tell how much of his strength he's using. He tries to be gentle, but his hands feel so far away. 

Jaskier watches his hands find their face, gives a tiny nod, murmurs, "Good," and takes the head of Geralt's cock into his mouth. His mouth is as wet as Geralt's cock, spit pooled on his tongue for Geralt's cock to slide into. He lets Geralt's cock slip over his tongue, drawing him into that slippery heat.

Then Jaskier starts to suck.

Geralt groans again, trying to cut the sound off. The edge of the tub bites into his fingers, or his fingers into it. He doesn't know. He looks down to see Jaskier bobbing his head on his cock and re-wetting his fingers with the oil. The fingers come back, touching the back of his balls this time, knuckles on his perineum before Jaskier turns his fingers, rubbing all of them up the crack of Geralt's arse. Jaskier didn't dry him here, so the water that's left beads off the oil, trickling down Geralt's thighs. Then the fingers come back with purpose, heading straight to Geralt's hole.

Jaskier told him to be quiet, but Geralt can't help his rough noise at the touch. With his hands on the tub and his cock in Jaskier's mouth, he can't really go anywhere, but he lifts up on the balls of his feet so he can press against Jaskier's fingers. The first two breach him a little, but the angle's not right. It's not enough.

He lifts up again. This time, Jaskier straightens his fingers and pushes up when Geralt pushes down. The oil lets them slip in deep, sending a spark through Geralt. He forgets himself, grunting. Jaskier doesn't lift his mouth off Geralt's cock, but he does hum soothingly, even as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back in.

Geralt's fingers dig into the wood of the tub, splintering the old boards. His cock jerks in Jaskier's mouth when Jaskier's fingers find his prostate. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is so bright it makes Geralt shake. Usually he can last as long as he needs to, but he feels like Jaskier has been teasing him for hours and now he's helpless in Jaskier's hands.

"Can I come?" he asks. He doesn't know why he asks. He isn’t even ready to come but he needs to know what's allowed. 

Jaskier's mouth comes off his cock but his tongue flicks against the underside wickedly. He clears his throat to speak.

"No. Not yet. Close your eyes if it’s too much,” he says and sucks Geralt down again as his fingers go as deep as they can.

Groaning, Geralt closes his eyes as the pleasure rises in him. Maybe Jaskier closes his eyes too, enjoying the weight in his mouth and Geralt's tightness around his knuckles. Geralt can't look, but he can picture it, Jaskier's full mouth, his dark eyelashes lowered, the place where his wrist is resting on Geralt's thigh.

He can't look. He doesn’t trust himself not to make a noise. He can't lift his hands. Jaskier told him not to touch, so he can't redirect Jaskier, or even warn him. He comes over Jaskier's tongue as Jaskier's fingers mercilessly work in and out of him. 

Jaskier keeps at it, lips tight on the ridge of his cock, fingers massaging inside him, until Geralt's knees feel like water. Finally Jaskier slows, then stops, Geralt’s cock cradled on his tongue, fingers crooked in Geralt's arse. He makes another low _Mmm_ as he slips his fingers out, bracing his hand high up on the inside of Geralt's thigh. He lets Geralt's cock fall out of his mouth. It bobs in front of Geralt again, sensitive in the air.

Jaskier didn’t say to, but Geralt opens his eyes anyway to the sight of Jaskier still on his knees, a proud look on his flushed face. He leans over, past Geralt’s hip, to spit into the tub. Geralt’s spend hangs there at the surface, milky white stark against the murky grey water, for a moment before drifting away. 

Running his tongue in his mouth cheek to cheek, Jaskier says, “I’ve wanted to do that for years.”

*

The air in the room is cold, or maybe it's just Geralt, now that he's out of the tub and the evidence of his orgasm is at the bottom of it. When Jaskier stands, Geralt knows he's right there, can feel how close he is, but Geralt feels like he's clear across the Continent. He should reach for Jaskier, return the favour. At least offer a kiss. But his hands are still on the tub, holding him up now. He made some noise, but he's still holding on like Jaskier told him to. 

Jaskier smiles at him with his bruised pink mouth. 

"Alright?" he asks in a voice that sounds like it's coming up from the bottom of the tub, dirty and far away. 

Geralt nods, eyes flickering from Jaskier's face to the wall behind. He doesn't know where he stopped counting bricks. 

"Good," Jaskier says firmly. He stoops down to pick the towel back up and fiddle with the pot of chamomile oil. 

It's over now. Time for Geralt to move and get dressed and go to Jaskier’s party. The thought of traipsing around like an idiot while he feels like this is torture. If Jaskier ends up needing protection, Geralt hardly knows if he could help him.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog, finally letting go of the tub. His hands feel numb, which is no good. He straightens up from the slouch he was in, grimacing at the oil between his thighs.

Jaskier stands too, moving much faster than Geralt. He has the towel over his shoulder again, looking just as he did before all this. His eyebrows pinch together at Geralt's clumsy attempts at moving around him.

"Hey," he says, sharp at the edge. "Where do you think you're going?"

Geralt clears his throat, although that doesn't help with how thick his tongue feels. "To get ready," he says. Slurs, really. 

"No," Jaskier says sharply. And then softer: "Not yet. Here." His hands land steady on Geralt's chest. Both of them are oiled, leaving two shining prints.

"Not yet," he murmurs, hands sliding down over Geralt's shoulders. "Just stay for a little longer, okay?”

Geralt, who froze when Jaskier said _No_ , doesn’t move. His legs feel like honey. The edge of the tub is digging into the backs of his thighs. 

“Okay?” Jaskier asks again. This time is voice is somewhere between the cold command of _No_ and the soft warmth of _not yet_. 

Geralt nods, head heavy. 

“Good.” Jaskier’s voice is warm again, like his oiled hands coasting over Geralt’s collarbones, coming up to cup Geralt’s cheeks. “Is there anything you want?”

In Jaskier’s hands, Geralt’s head feels lighter, easier to handle, even with the question weighing on him. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to ask for. Jaskier gave him his pleasure. Whatever else he could want is irrelevant. People give him what they can. 

“No,” he says, hoping Jaskier doesn’t ask him to elaborate. He doesn’t know what else to say or how to say it. 

Thankfully Jaskier just nods at him, thumbing Geralt’s cheeks like Geralt’s his pet. 

“Just a little longer then,” he murmurs, and bends back down to re-oil his hands. He starts to rub the oil into Geralt’s right shoulder with the same care he washed it. He works his way down Geralt’s whole arm and is rubbing his thumbs into Geralt’s palm before Geralt thinks to ask:

“Should I close my eyes?” It comes out syrupy. He’s not much of a talker, but the way he sounds is just embarrassing. He can’t think the last time he was this out of it – he doesn’t get like this – not even when he drinks.

Jaskier doesn’t stop working on Geralt’s hand, but he does look up – a soft expression on his face.

“Only if you want to,” he says.

Geralt shakes his head, but Jaskier’s already left him to his decision, stepping to the side so he can attend to Geralt’s left shoulder now.

The oil follows the same pattern as the soap and the towel before, outward in, so Geralt knows what to expect. The room is still warm from the bathwater and even though the smell of chamomile is strong, Geralt doesn’t mind. It covers the smell of old stone and dirty water.

Jaskier oils his whole front, getting down on his knees again to do Geralt’s legs. He even smoothes a little oil over Geralt’s balls and cock, a running a very gentle finger under the rim of Geralt’s foreskin. Geralt’s half-hard again, but it doesn’t feel pressing.

Standing again, Jaskier helps Geralt turn around again. A new palmful of oil slips straight down Geralt’s spine. He takes a deep breath. He feels warm and soft everywhere there’s oil, tingling in a good way. He lets his head drop, half-dreaming under the attention. He could try and count bricks again but he doesn’t care about them now, not with Jaskier’s hand going between his legs again, making sure he’s oiled and soft.

*

When the pack of lords at the banquet mock him, his first instinct is to fight, even if he knows doing so would play into their perception of him. He could beat most of them bloody by the time they get enough wits between them to do anything about it.

Then he sees Jaskier beyond them. He’s holding his lute tightly in his hands, but his face is wide open like a book, his pink mouth tense, his eyes telling Geralt to stop or there’ll be trouble.

Geralt listens to his second instinct, and makes a joke instead of fighting. He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s doing or why.

*

It turns into a mess in the end anyway. Neither his first nor his second instinct have helped him tonight, so he relies on his third instinct.

“Don’t grope for trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn,” he awkwardly says to Jaskier, who still has the woman in his arm, and runs away from the mess he’s made as fast as he can.

*

Part of him expects Jaskier to chase after him and is disappointed with Mousesack is the one on his heels. Not that it matters. He’d leave even if it was Jaskier. He can’t be here.

*

He's alone for a long time, years. It turns out there's as many monsters in the world regardless of who he's with. He visits brothels and backrooms sometimes, but that's for the same physical relief he'd get from stretching after a fight or eating a dense meal. He avoids most towns, washing the blood off in rivers and keeping his guard up at all times. It's easier this way.

He doesn't need much sleep, which he doesn't care about until he can't sleep at all. He's not haunted by images or voices, or in pain. He just doesn't sleep, not even after back-to-back tumbles with a whore and the next man in line to see her. He wouldn't mind if he wasn't so tired. Exhaustion makes it hard to keep his guard up, makes him clumsy with his sword and opens the door to all his thoughts.

He hears, six ales deep at a tavern and so tired his skin feels like sludge, that there's a djinn at the bottom of a nearby lake. Dropped there by a prince with only one eye.

Geralt is fishing for it with his net, wishing fervently for some relief from what he's feeling, when he hears the sound of someone approaching, and it’s only a moment before he recognizes the familiar shape of Jaskier.

Instead of relief he gets a fight, and his next wish is for Jaskier to shut up while Jaskier wishes for revenge on someone Geralt’s never heard of.

Like the prince with one eye, Jaskier's wish bounces back at him, spiteful enough to have him choking on his own blood. He reaches out for Geralt and Geralt, panicking, takes his arm.

*

Everything smells of blood after. Jaskier's blood and spit, blood on Yennefer's belly from her amphora, blood on Geralt's back from fucking on rubble and glass. The scent is heavy, confusing, and between that and his strange sleep, he’s dazed even once they're far away. His hands are barely gripping the reins; Roach leads them to a stream because she's thirsty.

Jaskier takes his time washing the blood off his chin. He swishes his mouth out too, spitting a stream of pink blood onto the dirt. He looks at his reflection in the water, and then at Geralt's pale face. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, reaching out to touch Geralt's arm. 

Geralt clears his throat, focusing. "I should ask you that."

"I feel great," Jaskier says. "She must have a magic touch." He smiles at his own little joke. 

His hand stays on Geralt's arm, steady despite how much blood poured out of him earlier. Geralt looks at that instead of his wavering reflection. 

"Hey, Geralt," Jaskier says softly, thumb rubbing into the curve of Geralt's elbow until Geralt manages to lift his face.

"You're okay," Jaskier tells him gently, smiling at him.

Geralt leans in like he's falling and kisses Jaskier. Jaskier's mouth tastes like a steel blade and his lips are cold. Geralt's own mouth must taste like the burnt ends of a failed spell but Jaskier kisses him back anyway.

It's a warm, generous kiss that doesn't last long. Jaskier pulls back first, but cups the back of Geralt's neck to keep him close. 

"It's been a long time," he says in a hushed tone, and then starts laughing so loudly a bird takes flight. 

"What," Geralt croaks. There's still a shadow of blood washing down Jaskier's throat that Geralt can see now that Jaskier's tipped his head back to laugh. Geralt wonders if Jaskier would let him lick it off. 

Jaskier gets control of himself slowly, but his grin remains even after the laughter fades. He combs Geralt's hair back from his face. 

"Nothing," he says. "It's just good to see you again." He leans in to kiss Geralt for the third time, his mouth gentle, his fingers a tight tangle in Geralt’s hair. 

*

Everything changes, and nothing changes. Geralt feels as though he's travelling to old places but wearing new boots while he does so. The things they do, traveling, hunting, earning coin, they're the same on sight, but they feel different for Geralt. There's a new pleasure in hearing a song from Jaskier, drinking out of the same waterskin, or sharing a bed. They've not shared any of Geralt's stranger pleasures though, the ones that make Geralt's body heavy and his mind light. Geralt might ask, but he doesn't know the right words for such a request and can't risk another fumble, not with Jaskier. If he put-off a whore or a casual aquintance, it wouldn't matter, but this is different.

What exists between him and Jaskier is warmer and fuller than just asking someone to bed, and lacks the sharp edges of his time with Yennefer that Geralt hasn't yet forgotten and won't anytime soon. Geralt hopes it stays that way. He doesn't want to tread that ground again. No matter what he wished, Geralt knows enough to know he's not what Yennefer needed, but maybe he can be something Jaskier wants. 

*

Geralt is wounded, and fumbling for his White Honey vial. Jaskier isn't helping much by yelling at him while he digs in Geralt's saddlebags for more potions and bandages. 

"There isn't much," Geralt groans once Jaskier's done yelling, "Where is it?" for the third time. "Usually I find the monster _after_ I get the contract."

He manages to get the cork off the vial and tips most of the potion in his mouth. He loses a little bit of it down his chin but considering the deep set of slashes on his shoulder he thinks he gets enough in his mouth to make a difference. The potion goes down like it's sand but Geralt doesn’t care, swallowing hard, leaning back against the tree once he’s got it down. He can see the town's granary on the horizon. He's betting that if they make it there he'll find someone looking to have a monstrous centipede killed, the one that lurks just outside of the town walls.

Jaskier comes back to him holding a shirt. He presses it against Geralt's shoulder with one hand and picks up the vial with the other.

"This is all you have?" he asks, shaking the vial and staring at the few drops clinging to the bottom. "I've seen you chug a tankard of this."

"No time to make more," Geralt slurs. His blood feels like honey in his veins, the potion binding with the poison. "And that bite was much worse than this is."

"Right, of course," Jaskier says. He's still annoyed, but he seems to realize that Geralt won't be dying immediately, so he's stopped yelling. He lifts the shirt up, frowns at what he finds underneath, puts it down again, and then asks: "What do you mean, no time?"

Geralt closes his eyes, swept up by the feeling of potion and poison battling it out in his chest. It feels like his heart will explode for a moment, but the feeling subsides. 

"I've been busy," he grunts, opening his eyes again when he can.

Jaskier chuckles without any humour. "With what? It's been a leisurely ride through the countryside for the past few weeks."

"Things, Jaskier. Can we not do this right now?"

Jaskier checks Geralt's wound again. His face eases a little. 

"Fine," he says. "Can you get up? If we make it to town I'll buy you a draught and a beer."

"My hero," Geralt says, in hopes of making Jaskier laugh. Thankfully, he does, his arm going under Geralt’s to get him off the ground. Swayed by potion and laughter, Geralt gets up even though it hurts. 

*

After another dose of White Honey and a beer, Geralt feels better. And as Geralt expected, half of the patrons off the tavern have tales of being chased and mauled by the giant centipede that lurks just outside the town's walls. Once Jaskier intimates that perhaps they could do something about the town's problem, coins start to pile up on the bar. Nursing his own wine, one hand on Geralt's knee under the table, Jaskier eyes the pile and the bar patrons until he's satisfied. Then he drains his wine and stands. 

"Fear not, gentle souls," he announces, sweeping the coin in the cupped bottom of his shirt, "Geralt will slay your beast and bring peace to your town again."

The patrons, light on coin now but too drunk to care, cheer. 

*

Some of the coin goes to supplies before Geralt leaves for the hunt. Geralt protests – he can buy potions named the same as what he brews, but they're made for human constitutions. They're watery and weak as far as Geralt's concerned, sometimes more distracting than they are helpful. 

"Hopefully you don't need them then," Jaskier says, not even bothering to barter with the potions girl as he pays. "And maybe I'm buying them for me. You didn't consider that, did you?"

"You didn't buy them for yourself."

"I did not."

It's early in the day, cool enough that the centipede should still be sluggish and easy to fight, now that Geralt knows what he's up against. Jaskier walks with him to the edge of town, holding Roach's reins so Geralt can equip himself for the hunt ahead. 

"What will you do?" Geralt asks when they've reached the gates. He pours some insectoid oil on his blade, letting the excess drip to the dirt.

"Relax, I suppose," Jaskier teases. "Tune my lute, take a nap."

Geralt hauls himself up into the saddle. Jaskier hands him the reins. "No heartfelt pining?"

"No," Jaskier says, looking sly. "You left your purse with me."

Geralt snorts and rolls his eyes. He almost leaves, but loosens his knee on Roach when Jaskier's hand lands on it. He looks down. The sly look is gone from Jaskier's face, replaced with a gentle firmness.

"I won't have time for pining," he tells Geralt. "You'll be back too soon for that." He's not asking Geralt, but his tone makes it clear Geralt is to respond.

"Yes," Geralt says. He'll come back as soon as the monster is dead. 

"Good," Jaskier says, plucking at Geralt's leathers, as if it doesn't matter much. "And don't get hurt."

"I won't," Geralt says. The sun's still clinging to the horizon and there's dew on the grass, but he feels warm under his armour and he feels Jaskier's hand on his knee even after he leaves.

*

The centipede has made a nest for itself in a shaggy spread of dead trees out behind the town. It's dug itself into the roots of the largest tree. Geralt finds it by the sour, bitter smell of its giant body and the sound of its pinchers clipping at the bones of a half-eaten bull. 

When Geralt comes into view, the centipede picks up its head, hissing from its bloody maw. It uncoils itself from the tree's roots, raising its body in the air to see Geralt better.

"You filth," he calls to get its attention, unsheathing his sword, the silver shining with oil in the sunlight.

The centipede drops the slimy bull's corpse and clicks its pinchers at Geralt instead. He must smell good to it, meat and leather, because when it moves it moves quickly. Geralt knows to expect it now, waiting for it to serpentine its way to him, knocking it off its path with _Aard_. He swipes at its closest legs with his sword, taking two off at the joint. The centipede screams, whipping its tail around. It catches Geralt on the hip, staggering him, but he's not hurt.

He just laughs, thrilled with battle, crooking his fingers at the beast. 

"Again," he says. 

*

He's back at the town gate by mid-afternoon, dragging the centipede's head behind Roach. In their wake, there's an oily, smoking trail of blood that the townspeople would do wisely to avoid. They probably shouldn't even keep this head, lest the poison that lingers in it hurt them, but this is the trophy they paid for. 

He drags it to the town's centre and leaves it near the tavern. He tells as many of the curious townspeople that are gathering as possible not to touch it, but he's distracted looking for Jaskier among the people, trying to find his face or scent or pulse. He's not there.

Geralt hands the ropes harnessing the head to the nearest person and leaves the crowd behind, ignoring their calls for the fight’s story. 

*

He goes to the tavern first and finds it empty but for the most dedicated drinkers. Then across the street to the inn, only to be told that Jaskier hasn't been seen since they left together in the morning, and did he maybe want to check out front of the tavern, where there's quite the commotion?

Geralt turns on his heel without thanking the proprietor. 

*

True to his word, Geralt finds Jaskier sleeping. He’s in an open-sided barn far from the tavern and the commotion, sleeping propped up on hay bales, lute and notebook by his side. Geralt can see horses both in the distance and sketched on the page in Jaskier's notebook. He can picture Jaskier wandering in here, drawn by the sight of the horses running on the land, settling down, now dreaming. 

The carefreeness of it irks Geralt. Jaskier didn't get slammed around by a giant insect, risking another venomous wound or acid blood burns. He stayed here and stayed safe and soft. 

The battle in Geralt's blood threatens to boil over. He feels too hot for his armour, cloudy-headed. He strides over and grips the toe of Jaskier's boot, shaking it.

"Wake up," he snaps. 

Jaskier shifts, opening his eyes slowly. He straightens up. 

"Ah, there you are," he murmurs happily. 

Geralt snorts, tossing Jaskier's foot to the side. “Why are you in this squalid barn?”

Picking up on his foul mood, Jaskier leans forward. 

"You look whole, but are you hurt?" he asks. "I thought I told you not to get hurt."

"I'm fine," Geralt says, stripping his gloves off. He wipes his clammy palms on his leathers. The smell of his sweat mixed with the old oiled smell of his armour is making him feel trapped.

Jaskier turns to see him better. "You're not fine. You look like you want to hit me."

Geralt's shoulders climb up. He doesn't care for when Jaskier reads him like this, as if he’s a book that isn’t particularly challenging. "I won’t,” he grinds out, but there’s no denying that Jaskier’s right – he wants to.

The easy, sleepy corners of Jaskier's mouth harden into a frown. He gets both boots flat on the ground and hangs his hands between his knees. 

"Get down on the ground," he says. 

"What?" Geralt heard him just fine, the words, the tone of his voice like a knife coming out of its sheath, but there's a hum filling his ears the same way there's body heat filling his armour. 

Jaskier's eyes flick to the ground between them. He nods to it. "On your knees."

No one asks that of Geralt. The stronger ones will push him down, and every once in a while his knees cut out, if something hurts or feels good enough. He looks at the ground. It's dusty, strewn with hay. If Geralt kneels on it there'll be no mistaking the dust on his leathers. 

Sitting down and leaned forward how he is, Jaskier doesn't physically present much of a threat. But everything about him says _power_ : his narrowed eyes, his firm mouth, his hanging hands. 

Jaskier straightens up a little, putting one hand on his knee. "I won't make you. Either get on your knees or take yourself somewhere else to be moody."

Geralt fidgets in his sweltering armour, glancing out the open side of the barn. The horses are still far away, peacefully unaware of what is happening.

The leather of his gloves creaks in the fists he makes and his boots scuff on the dust as he kneels. Sometimes, his hands are tied at this point, or he needs them to stop his fall. Now he has neither, so he just makes them into fists at his side, dropping his creased gloves.

Jaskier's a few feet away from him. He watches Geralt go down with a neutral expression on his face, but his eyes don't wander at all. He's rubbing his index finger over his thumb. 

"You should meditate for a minute," he says. The knife-edge in his voice has receded, but he's not speaking to Geralt as lightly or brightly as he normally would. 

Geralt clears his throat, dry from the dust and whatever's staring to happen. "It doesn't really work for a minute."

Jaskier's eyebrows rise. 

"Then meditate until I tell you to stop," he says.

Geralt takes a breath. He still feels hot in all the same places he did when he was angry: ears, throat, armpits, stomach, but he's not angry anymore. Outside of the barn, closer to the centre of town where Geralt left behind the centipede's head and the crowd, a child yells in shock and delight and fear. Geralt flinches. 

"But," he says, "the people..."

Jaskier holds his hand up. "There's no one here. And if people come, there's nothing for them to see here. You're not doing anything wrong."

It might look strange, the witcher kneeling in a dirty barn in front of a bard sat on a throne of hay. The thought of the image and of people wondering about it, makes Geralt's skin prickle. He shifts on his knees. If he gets up, all there will be is two knee-marks in the dust. He’s already dirty; maybe no one would know it was him.

"Go on," Jaskier tells him. "It'll feel good."

He shuffles backwards on the hay, into the same position he was before. He even picks up his notebook and his quill, although he doesn’t look away from Geralt. 

Geralt has meditated in front of Jaskier before, but not regularly and not like this. Most of the time Jaskier's half-asleep, in his own meditative state. He's never sat in front of Geralt and watched him like this, eyes like coals burning into Geralt. 

It doesn't feel natural, but Geralt draws himself into position: knees spread for stability, hands curling limply on top of them, head bowed, eyes closed. There's a little peace in assuming the position, but he's still aware of Jaskier, can hear his quill-tip tap twice on the page, smell the apple he ate earlier on his breath. 

Normally, he drops into meditation as soon as he finds the position, years of mental habit and muscle memory kicking in. Now he finds himself waiting for it to be over before it can begin. He doesn't know when Jaskier will call on him, when someone will come by. 

The minutes are long. Geralt feels every second of each one. The aimless, irritable energy, usually bade back by meditation, courses through him. It's impossible to find his centre in this open space, with Jaskier looking at him, waiting for something. He stays on his knees and keeps his head bent, but he can't help curling his hands into fists on his thighs.

Jaskier sighs. He gets up off the hay - Geralt is so tuned into the sounds of him he can practically see him - and comes over to where Geralt is kneeling.

"For someone who says he doesn't care to fight," Jaskier murmurs, crouching, "you seem to do it whenever given the chance."

Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but stops. Jaskier didn't tell him not to speak, but other people have done so before. It's common enough. He closes his mouth.

Jaskier pats over the belt on his hips until he finds the flask of water Geralt takes into battle with him. It isn't much, just a few mouthfuls, enough to take the edge off thirst or splash into dry eyes or a wound. He uncaps it and lifts it to Geralt's mouth.

"All of it," he tells Geralt, tipping it even as he speaks. It isn't much, the flask not even full, but Geralt's first swallow is still a shock. He almost jerks away, but rational thought keeps him still. He swallows again, and when Jaskier tips the flask up as high as it'll go, once more. It's smoother, less panicky-feeling.

"Good," Jaskier says, working the cap back onto the flask. When he speaks, Geralt can feel Jaskier's breath on his face.

"Now show me your tongue," he says.

That pierces Geralt like a stake, shame pinning him to where he's kneeling.

"Why?" he sputters, like he's drowning.

Jaskier clears his throat, as if the problem is Geralt didn't hear his words.

"Because I want to see it. Show it to me, please."

Geralt opens his dry mouth – the moisture from the water already a distant memory. It's impossible to stick his tongue out, his jaws stiff like an unoiled machine, but Jaskier doesn't comment about it. He puts his thumb on the point of Geralt's chin, drawing it down a little further. He turns Geralt into the light, sun warming his face as well as his pumping blood, to see better before his thumb drops off again.

"Lovely," he says mildly. "Thank you." He moves again, standing so he can sit again on the hay. He's closer than he was before. Now, when he leans forward, he can put a hand on Geralt's shoulder, clasping the edge of the armour, his thumb curving around the front of Geralt's throat. People have touched Geralt there before, to force him to his knees. Geralt's already there. If Jaskier wanted him to go facedown he should have taken Geralt by the nape. He doesn't grasp at Geralt though to push him anyway, just rests his hand there, almost companionably.

"Now what," Geralt croaks, dusty-throated.

"Relax," Jaskier tells him. "Hands open, like before. Deep breaths."

Geralt does it, unmaking his fists again, drawing in a breath. Jaskier's hand on his shoulder is distracting, but he tries to use it. Jaskier told him to relax. The hand on his shoulder is telling him to relax. He _should_ relax. It's not the easy slide into meditation he normally has, pebbled by both the urge to shrug away from and lean into the hand, but he once he finds it he sinks into it like a body into a bath.

Once he's there he welcomes it. It smoothes the rough edges that come from killing and helps re-centre him. He's still aware of where he is, in a barn in a strange town, with Jaskier close enough to touch him, but he lets the sensations of the situation drift by him. He's not fighting anymore, he doesn't need to pay attention to his surroundings, to be on his usual high alert. Jaskier will get him if anything happens.

The minutes pass, still long, but only because Geralt is drifting through them. He lets go of the fight with the centipede and how wound up he was after, his annoyance at seeing Jaskier easy and sleeping, the shame of showing his tongue like a dog. He even lets go of Jaskier's hand on his shoulder, stops fighting against its weight.

He's deep in his meditation, only barely aware of himself or his body, when Jaskier's hand moves to cup his neck. His thumb skims over Geralt's throat.

"Good," he says. It sounds like he's speaking to Geralt through a wall of water. "Very good. Come back to me now."

There's no panic or fear in his voice, just warmth, and the thumb on Geralt's skin strokes in a steady rhythm. Geralt doesn't jolt back to himself, he swims up, until he can take a breath at the surface of consciousness. He opens his eyes, blinking away the haze of being under.

Jaskier's kneeling on the ground with him. He's very pleased-looking for someone wearing silk trousers on a dirty floor.

"Do you feel alright?" he asks. His thumb is still stroking. Geralt nods. "Did you get hurt today?"

Geralt shakes his head, which still feels like it's full of water, cool and quiet.

"Very good," Jaskier says. "Why don't you tell me the story while I find out for myself?"

Geralt has to clear his throat to speak. Luckily, it's a short story, an easy fight to tell an easy story about while Jaskier feels over his arms and sides through his armour. A vague pulse of arousal fills Geralt while Jaskier touches him, but it's just as aimless as the irritation he brought with him before. He can smell something similar on Jaskier, but his face has only intense care on it while he checks Geralt over carefully.

When the story is finished and Jaskier has put his hands all over the parts of Geralt he can reach, Jaskier uses Geralt’s shoulder as a push-off point to stand.

“Thank you,” he says tenderly, offering his hands to Geralt to pull him up.

*

They return to the tavern together, past the gooey drag-marks from the centipede's head, gone to some new fate. Geralt doesn't want to be in a loud room full of strangers, but he's hungry and thirsty. He's grateful when Jaskier sits between him and the rest of the room, letting him eat and drink while Jaskier spins out the tale of the centipede hunt, telling it far better than Geralt ever could.

*

It’s weeks later when the topic of potions comes up. Jaskier’s digging indiscriminately through both his pack and Geralt’s, looking for a new lute string. He doesn’t get one, but does come up with an armful of bottles from his pack.

“Aren’t these yours?” he asks, tipping his forearm so Geralt can see the different colours of potion in the bottles. 

Geralt glances up from the arrowhead he’s sharpening. 

“No,” he says, testing the tip of the arrow against the heel of his hand. It’s still too dull. “You bought those potions. They’re yours.”

Jaskier considers them for a moment before he remembers where they came from. “What do I need them for? I bought them for you.”

Still sharpening, Geralt says, “I told you before you bought them: they’re too weak for me. I’d have to bolster them in order for them to be helpful to me.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says easily. He brings the bottles over to Geralt. “Let’s do that then. I don’t want them to go to waste.”

“It’s boring work.”

Jaskier sets the potions down in a neat line beside Geralt’s boot. “Not to me. I used to watch you make potions all the time. You never let me help, even when you clearly needed it.”

“You were nosy and clumsy. You’d have killed yourself.”

Jaskier grins. “And now I’m just nosy.” He sits next to Geralt on the rock. “I’d like to learn. I’m not much of a fighter, but if I could help you in this, it’d be wonderful.”

He’s speaking in a soft, fond voice, one he uses when he wants to do some good for Geralt but doesn’t think Geralt will accept it, and he’s generally right. 

Geralt tests the arrowhead again. It leaves a single red prick on his hand, so sharp there’s no pain before the blood wells up. 

“You only wish to learn how to poison me,” he says gruffly, touched. 

Jaskier laughs at him. 

“Yes,” he says, bumping Geralt’s shoulder lightly with his own, “that’s exactly what I want.”

*

As it turns out, Jaskier's an excellent pupil. He's observant, tuned into fine details, and inquisitive. To begin with, he writes the recipes Geralt recites in the back of his notebook, labelling them neatly according to type and effect. He has a good eye for spotting ingredients in the wild and what he doesn't recognize he sketches himself or has Geralt do it for him. And even with a years-long gap in tutelage, it's impressive what he remembers.

"Yes," he says dryly after Geralt comments on his memory, "It's almost as if I was interested in what you were saying and trying to connect with you about something in your world."

Geralt makes sure Jaskier can see his exasperation, but when he turns back to the pot, he's more pleased by the memory of Jaskier's eagerness than he was before. 

It will take some time for Jaskier to learn the full breadth of witcher potions, so Geralt focuses on the basics: Swallow, White Honey. Cat, once Jaskier asks after it. _Seeing your face the first time left quite an impression_ , he says, although he doesn't elaborate. 

Geralt doesn't think of himself as much of a teacher, but he tries to emulate how he learned and better it, doling out bites of information and correction as necessary. Luckily, he's the only person who'll get hurt if Jaskier messes up, so there's that worry taken care of. He knows there's the praise portion of instructing, which Geralt doesn't have extensive experience in, but Jaskier makes that easy by mostly praising himself. 

"It looks perfect," he says as he pours the Cat into the flask in front of him. He's smiling, shirtsleeves pushed up, wearing Geralt’s brown work gloves to protect his hands from splashback. He has the smell of green herbs drying in the sun clinging to his shirt and hair.

“Smells good,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier’s careful when he puts the cork on the flask, and then looks up at Geralt. "How will we know if it's right?"

Geralt shrugs. “I can always find things to fight in the dark.”

*

They're close enough to Vizima that it's no trouble to catch word of a pack of barghests running rampant through the farmland. Geralt packs well for the fight, but it's Jaskier's flask of Cat he's sure to slip into his belt. It's the only potion he takes with him. He won't be sure of its efficacy otherwise. 

He leaves Jaskier behind at camp. There isn't a version of Cat for humans, and a night full of demon hounds isn't a safe one. He travels on foot in the dark, one hand on the hilt of his silver sword and one on the potion pouch on his hip. He picks up the faint dusty sulphur smell of the barghests, but that's a bare warning before they've surrounded him, snarling, ectoplasm drool dripping from their jaws. He can barely see them, just the light from their eyes. 

He pops the cork on the flask and drains it. The world lights up in front of him. He can see the lolling tongues of the beasts, the ragged edges of their ears, the tips of their claws digging into the ground as a few of them begin their charge. 

He doesn't see the one that bites him on the thigh, not until he's whirled and put his sword through its flank. He sees the plasm dripping from it as it dies, and the moonlight shining off the pieces of the broken glass potion vial in the dirt, the fear dawning in the barghests’ eyes.

*

He comes back to camp like he's being chased. The Cat is still running through him, rendering everything in such detail it's like looking at a graphite sketch on parchment. Jaskier's standing in front of the fire, blocking its light, but Geralt has no trouble seeing the concern and relief on his face. 

"Geralt!" he calls. "Are you alright? You're covered in...something." His eyes sweep over Geralt, the ectoplasm splashed over him, mixing with the blood from his leg, up to his face. He gets stuck there, on the poison-pale skin and the toxic veins and Geralt’s night-black eyes. His mouth opens a little, and Geralt watches his pupils go wide. 

"Yes," Geralt growls, hardly slowing down as he crosses the camp to Jaskier. He takes hold of Jaskier's face to kiss him. The potion worked perfectly. Jaskier did it exactly right, and Geralt laid waste to the whole pack of barghests thanks to his work. He could hardly wait to get back here and see Jaskier. 

He kisses Jaskier hard, keeping his cheek in one hand, using the other to pull him into Geralt's body by the arse so Jaskier's up against his erection. He feels wild. 

It takes Jaskier a moment to kiss back, but Geralt won't hold that against him. He couldn't see Geralt coming the way Geralt could see him, looking out into the woods patiently. For him, Geralt wasn't there and then he was. The important thing is that he kisses Geralt back, biting his lip before he murmurs, "You taste strange."

He runs his hands over Geralt's thighs as he does, and the right one rubs over the bite wound on Geralt's thigh. It lights up with pain. Geralt groans. Each toothmark is icy in comparison to the heat in his blood, the warmth of Jaskier's mouth. 

At the groan, at the obvious tears in Geralt's breeches, at the particular slickness of blood, Jaskier pulls back. He holds his hand up to the fire light to see it. 

"What's this?" he asks. "Did you get hurt?"

Geralt grabs his wrist, guiding it back to his thigh. "Don't care," he says into Jaskier's mouth. "Make it hurt more."

Jaskier pulls his hand off Geralt's leg like it's burning him. He steps back from Geralt's embrace, his grasping hands. 

"Whoa," he says, the passion in his voice cooling. "We should take care of that."

Geralt steps back into his back, his warmth. He can see Jaskier's frown clearly, he just doesn't care. 

"You can hurt me," he says. Plenty of others have done it before. Geralt's even paid for it. Jaskier's only a human, but with Geralt's leg it'll be easy. If he presses hard enough Geralt's leg will buckle and then he's on his knees. He's been on his knees for Jaskier before, when he asked. Now he'd just go down and then Jaskier could do whatever he wanted. Geralt wouldn't fight him. 

Jaskier steps further away from Geralt. He ends up beside the fire, which is putting out enough light that the image of him blows out, hard to see. But Geralt can see his eyes, the anger there. 

He scrubs his bloody palm over his doublet. "I don't want to hurt you," he says, voice rising. "What makes you think I want to hurt you?"

There's a tremble in his voice that hasn't been there the other times he's taken charge of Geralt. Worse is the pain in his expression. Somehow, Geralt’s hurt him. 

Geralt’s ardour freezes. He takes a step back from Jaskier, the bite on his thigh aching. Suddenly, he's aware of the cold slime of the ectoplasm seeping into his clothing, now that his blood is cooling. 

He rubs his fingers over his cheek, where the Cat makes his skin itch. He wishes didn't have the Cat still coursing through his veins, so he could look Jaskier in the eyes properly. That he didn't look like a monster. 

“I don’t,” Geralt says, thoughts tumbling like rocks. He asked to be hurt. Jaskier didn’t say he would, didn’t threaten Geralt with it. Didn’t hit him or step on him or do any of the other things Geralt was ready for. 

“Right. I don’t.” Jaskier puts his knuckle against his eyelid, collecting himself. “Listen, you fought hard tonight and I’m glad to see my potion didn’t melt the eyes out of your skull. Why don’t you go find some place to clean up and then we’ll look at your leg?”

It’s a clear dismissal even though Jaskier tucks it into a question. He’s turning away from Geralt before Geralt can answer him, facing the bright fire so Geralt can hardly see him, just the blurry lines of his tense shoulders. 

*  
He slinks off into the woods again, ignoring the protests of his leg until he finds the bright white circle of a deep pond. He pulls his armour and his clothing off with wooden hands and dives into the water. It's cold, shockingly so, even with how chilled Geralt feels. He doesn't hurry making sure his numb hands sluice all the plasm and blood off his body. He tries to keep his mind blank and peaceful, but the corners are dark and full of curses. There's only so much slime and blood on him though, eventually his body is clean. 

He doesn't leave right away though. He stays in the water until the Cat wears off and the night darkens his vision again enough for him to bear it.

*

His leg heals well and quickly, thanks to Jaskier's skills expanding to balms, but it feels like it takes twice as long as normal. Each time one of the toothmarks hurts, Geralt remembers the hurt on Jaskier's face, and that's worse than ten bites. 

He steps lightly around Jaskier after that, unsure how to navigate the hurt he caused. Other times, when things have gone awry, the solution is simple: bear through it until he can leave, or the other person leaves. It’s not so simple when Jaskier still eats and works and sleeps beside him when Geralt’s become used to Jaskier’s presence beside him. It doesn’t help that Geralt doesn't know where he would go if he left Jaskier behind. it would be difficult to lose Jaskier on the map of the Continent. Geralt and his whereabouts aren't much of a secret, also thanks to Jaskier's work.

It can’t be too hard to amends. Other people do it all the time.

Jaskier's wiping a vinegar-soaked rag across the healthy pink scar tissue on Geralt's leg to clean off the remnants of balm, looking pleased with himself, as if he did all the work of Geralt's healing, and Geralt says, "I'm sorry."

Attention climbing from Geralt's leg to his face, Jaskier's brows knit. "For?"

As if he doesn't know. An unpleasant humiliation claws at Geralt's innards. He shifts so he can tug his breeches up. This is better done without his cock on display. 

"I shouldn't," he says, "have tried to make you hurt me."

"Ah," Jaskier responds, tossing the rag to the side. He sits on the log beside Geralt. "I assumed you wanted to let that one lie."

"I'd prefer it, but you were," the perfect image of Jaskier's hurt face flashes in Geralt's mind, "upset." 

"Yes, well, it's not every night someone grinds your hand on their bleeding wound and asks for more. It wasn't how I pictured that going, and wasn't how I wanted it to go." Jaskier's voice is steady, but he's got his eyes on his hands. 

Geralt's stomach feels like it's full of curdled milk. 

"You-" he says. "I've done that before. It's not...horrible." He's come like that before, and the damage never lasts long. 

"I figured as such," Jaskier says, fidgeting with his fingers. "I've done some of that too."

"When?"

Jaskier shrugs. "Here and there. I wanted to learn."

"Then why won't-"

Jaskier cuts him silent with a sharp look. "It doesn't feel good with you, Geralt. I can imagine the impact it has on you, but I know how you are, how you see yourself. For...that to work, we'd have to be coming at it from the same angle, and I don't believe we are. Maybe we could at some point, but not now."

His face and his tone soften after Geralt doesn't protest. 

"Do you not care for what we've already done?" he asks. 

Much of what they've done is what Geralt's done hundreds of time, the work of hands and mouths and cocks. All pleasurable. 

Jaskier continues, tone wondering. "We haven’t spoken of it, but you seemed so peaceful when I told you what to do, when you were being good. Is it not good for you?"

Good isn't what Geralt would call it. It's being submerged underwater without drowning. It's sitting down at a safe fire after a long day and taking his swords and pack off. 

"It's not like," he says, struggling, "other times. When I'm travelling and I find someone...like that, there's no time for..." He opens and closes his fist, _this_. Jaskier and his kindnesses, the slow slide into that soft space in his mind, none of it. "Each time could be the time someone sees me on my knees and decides to slit my throat and rob my body. It's risky means to an end."

Jaskier chews on the inside of his lip. "And you would prefer -" he claps his hands together, jarring in the quiet forest. "To do it - to have it done to you - as fast and brutal as possible, so you're at least getting something before its over?"

He seems displeased by the prospect, so utilitarian in counter to his soft, greedy-for-pleasure nature. 

Geralt shrugs, honest but feeling like he's wrong when he says, "It's what I know."

Jaskier runs his finger over the chewed edge of his thumbnail. "I suppose I can't blame you for that. You're a beast looking to get its belly scratched, same as me."

The comparison rankles Geralt, but Jaskier’s displeasure is fading into something contemplative, which is still foreign to Geralt, but better than Jaskier’s anger.

Still. "Sorry," he says again. 

Jaskier finally looks to him. 

"Don't be," he says kindly. "I don't think we've lost our way yet. Perhaps we can learn from each other."

"How?"

"I trust you," Jaskier says, putting his hand on Geralt's thigh, over the well-healing wound. "Are you willing to trust me?"

"Yes," Geralt says. He’s not sure about anything else but at least that’s simple.

*

Their actions hardly change, but things between them ease again, like a rope going slack, clouds clearing from the sky. Jaskier continues his potions work and Geralt gets a contract for a griffon living high in the hills and stealing from the valley below. It will take time to get to the region, and longer still to track it to its lair. There's time on the way for other things.

Geralt comes back to the camp with a crude sketch of a map on a piece of parchment, pointing from where they are to a cave that's said to be home to twin water hags. According to the butcher, the cave is deep and dark, but the hags keep emerging to attack people on the shore. He had shrugged when Geralt asked how deep, how dark.

"Jaskier, will you make some more Cat?"

Jaskier looks up from his notebook. His hair is a mess from having his hand in it. Geralt can see from where he's standing that Jaskier's going over a poem or a song, not a recipe, just by how the words on the page are laid out.

"Cat?" he asks. "What for?"

Jaskier’s only made the one Cat – weeks ago now. They've haven’t spoken of it or the night Geralt took it. Thinking of it still prickles at Geralt, although that's getting easier.

"Water hags," Geralt tells him. He hands over the paper when Jaskier presents his palm. "They live in a cave east of here. I can make it myself."

Jaskier frowns. "Did I not do it correctly? I followed your recipe. Was it too weak?"

The glow of the barghests’ eyes, the white blaze of the fire, Jaskier's pupils dilating. 

"It was fine," Geralt says. "Just don't want to burden you."

Jaskier hands the paper back, clapping his notebook shut. "I could use the practice. Do you have any water essence or do we need to find a herbalist?"

*

The second batch of Cat is as perfectly made as the first. The sun might as well be shining in the deep recesses of the water hag's lair, Geralt can see so well. It's not dark, but it's still deep as promised, and it takes Geralt several hours to find the muddy slough the hags call home. Fighting two at once is always an added difficulty, but Geralt comes out of the fight with only wet boots and a few bruises.

Once his breathing calms he cleans his blade, eyes exploring the cave, lingering. He can feel the pound of toxins in his blood and the familiar itching in his eyes that signal the Cat's hold over him. He looks around the cave, at the mud globs the hags threw everywhere, the piles of bones, the moss on the walls. He feels calm here, even if it’s an ugly place. There are no distractions.

He stays until boredom eats away at his post-battle energy, and the shitty, sour smell of the hags’ lives is equaled by the smell of their deaths. He trudges out of the cave, the night still looking like day, to find Roach and go back to camp.

He takes his time with that too, hoping, but Jaskier's awake waiting for him instead of sleeping. He's obviously heard Roach's hooves on the path, impatient face turned to the direction of the sound. 

"What took you so long?" he asks, steadying Roach so Geralt can climb down. 

"Deep cave." Geralt took his gloves off and loosened his chest piece on the ride, so it almost comes off when Jaskier grabs the collar of it to pull him close, surprising Geralt. He stumbles, more off balance from that than fighting his way out from between the two water hags.

"Are you hurt?" Jaskier asks, voice as impatient as his face looks.

Geralt shakes his head, but then says, "Just a bruise, on my back." One of them tossed him against a rock, but it's just a dull thudding pain, hardly a problem.

"You'll live," Jaskier tells him, as if he was complaining. He wasn't, but shame swoops through Geralt's guts anyway.

Jaskier pins Geralt's chin between his thumb and forefinger to turn his face.

"Let me look at you." He tilts Geralt's face to the light so he can see it better. Geralt closes his eyes reflexively, but not before the fire's light paints his vision white.

"Open your eyes," Jaskier demands. His thumb digs into Geralt's chin.

Geralt shakes his head as much as he can. "It's like looking at the sun. Hurts."

Jaskier hums, interested, but he tips Geralt's face the other way, to the darkness. "Better?"

This time, it's the trees Geralt can see when he opens his eyes. He can see the individual leaves and knots in the bark. He nods.

Jaskier shifts around Geralt, still holding his chin, so Geralt's back is to the fire and Jaskier's standing before him in the darkness. All the sweetness and good humour is gone from his face. Instead there's a demanding fierceness there that grabs Geralt by the guts. His cock pounds where it’s trapped in his leathers. Geralt doesn't care to beg, but he would, if Jaskier asked for it.

Instead, Jaskier stares him down for a moment, as if Geralt's offended him. Without the Cat, it would be hard to see his face, even with the light from the fire seeping around Geralt. But Geralt has a great view of his open mouth, his tongue wetting his lips.

"What should I do with you?" he asks, wet-mouthed. His voice is low, almost mean. 

Geralt swallows the lustful lump in his throat. His knees feel like they're melting. 

"Whatever you like," he manages. 

Jaskier grins, but there's more danger than joy in it. It's a hungry wolf's grin, the last thing you see on your last night alive. 

"Good answer," he says, hauling Geralt in to kiss. 

Even facing the darkness, closing his eyes is a relief. The feeling is only made better by the push of Jaskier's tongue into his mouth, the heat of his cock on Geralt's hip. He smells like smoke and his kisses are harsh and Geralt would fight a thousand water hags to have him like this.

He treats Geralt's armour and clothing like it's his sworn enemy, pulling and pushing until he's got Geralt's chest piece off and his leathers open enough to fondle Geralt's cock. Geralt tries to give as good as he's getting, but his fingers are unsteady on the tiny, fiddly buttons on Jaskier's trousers. He doesn't want to rip them, doesn't know what Jaskier would do if he did. 

He keeps at it until Jaskier grabs his wrists, squeezing them tightly to make Geralt let go, before his fingers do the work himself, faster and easier.

"Come on," he demands, "now."

They spin together past the fire to their bedrolls. Jaskier goes down on his back, bringing Geralt with him by the shirt and a brutal grip on his hair. He gets his legs around Geralt's waist and hooks his bootheels in the back of Geralt's thighs, not careful at all about how hard he does it. As if Geralt would choose to go anywhere, even if he could.

"C'mon," he pants again, hands gripping Geralt's arse inside his leathers, hips rising like the tide. His cock saws over Geralt's stomach, hot like a burn. Geralt's own cock rubs over the satin of Jaskier's trousers, slick to the touch and studded with those little buttons that tug on Geralt's skin. He shudders, humping down against Jaskier.

There's no rhythm to it. Their cocks rub together occasionally, but mostly Geralt’s cock brushes against hips and stomachs and fabric. Even in his lust-flooded brain Geralt knows he could make it better if he slowed down, planted his fists and knees better. But then he couldn't see Jaskier so well, the intensity and pleasure bright on his face. Couldn't watch his mouth say, "That's it, give it to me." Couldn't arch into it when Jaskier's hands let go of his arse to trace their way up his back.

He can do it better later if Jaskier wants him to. For now all he can do is submit to the sharp, slick pleasure of his cock rubbing on Jaskier, rounded out by the dull ache of Jaskier’s hands rubbing over his back, perfect.

*

In the morning, Geralt wakes up so well-slept he's slow to wake, groggy and, blinded by the sun when he opens his eyes.

"Fuck," he groans, bringing his forearm to cover his eyes.

"Good morning to you too," Jaskier says. He's not in the bed with Geralt, but his voice sounds almost as thick as Geralt's does. Even with his eyes shielded, Geralt can tell Jaskier's smiling.

There's the sound of water pouring into a cup, the spillage sizzling on the fire. After a moment, Geralt can smell the herbs and flowers Jaskier favours as they start steeping in the cup. As usual, Jaskier sips it too soon, and curses himself as he always does. Geralt takes a deep breath, eased by the sounds. He's still tired, but going back to sleep would be a mistake.

He leaves his arm flung over his eyes until Jaskier comes back to the bedrolls. He sits crosslegged beside Geralt, providing enough cover from the sun that Geralt can risk bringing his arm down to look at Jaskier. He's got his trousers from last night on, but no shirt or boots. His face is still sleep-smudged and his hair is untidy. He woke up before Geralt, but it can't have been by much.

Sipping his tea before he speaks, Jaskier says, "Are you well?"

His face is hot from the sun and the skin on his belly is flaky with semen, but the pain in his back has faded to a shadow, and he hasn't slept like that for some time. He has almost no memory of taking off his clothes and getting under the coverings last night, but here he is, nude and laying beside the imprint Jaskier left in the bedroll.

He clears his clogged throat. "Yes."

Jaskier passes over his steaming cup so Geralt can wet his mouth. He takes the opportunity to brush some of Geralt's hair back and thumb the end of his eyebrow. 

"I'm sorry," he says. "I've been remiss."

Geralt hands the cup back, tongue refreshed by the tastes of citrus and rose. "Hmm?"

Jaskier drinks from the same place Geralt just had his mouth before placing the cup between his legs, resting against the inside of his thigh. If it's hot then his face doesn't say it. He does look apologetic though, a strange fit on his sleepy face.

"I wasn't very careful with you last night."

"What?" Geralt remembers the strong thumb on his chin, the nipping kisses to his lip, the hands skimming his sore back. "You didn't hurt me."

Jaskier runs his finger along the rim of his cup before wiping the wetness on his knee. "I'm glad to hear it. I didn't do much for you after though."

Geralt raises both an eyebrow and himself up on his elbow. Often, Jaskier helps tend to his wounds after, putting salve on hard-to-reach places, cutting bandages, even digging his knuckles into tense muscles. A bruise, even a large one, is of no concern to him, well-handled by a worse night's sleep than Geralt just woke up from. 

"It's a bruise, Jaskier. Nothing you can do about it."

Jaskier snorts and shakes his head. 

"You can be so dense when it suits you," he mutters, but he's not upset. He takes another drink of his tea and passes the cup to Geralt again. 

"I don't mean the bruise," he says. "I mean _you_ , Geralt. I fell asleep faster than a sinking stone without seeing if you were okay with it. I know I came at you hard, but you looked so," he pauses, chewing on his lip and the word. "Magnificent, coming out of the night like that, eyes blacker than Hell itself." He smiles sheepishly. "It gets me every time, especially knowing that I can - that you'll let me do what I please with you, even while you look like that."

Geralt had known that Jaskier was interested in the effects of Cat. He'd mentioned it obliquely, and had asked to learn to make the potion, but the embarrassed lust that comes with his smile is a surprise to Geralt. 

At a loss, feeling his own arousal rise at the thought of being _done with_ , Geralt takes a drink. He can taste Jaskier's mouth on the cup like a kiss. 

Jaskier shuffles a bit closer, kneeling now alongside Geralt instead of sitting. He rubs his palm over the flat middle of Geralt's chest, as if Geralt needs soothing now. With a little pressure, he has Geralt laying back.

"I should have taken some time with you," he says. "Made sure you came back alright."

To not spill hot tea all over himself while laying down, Geralt has to hold the cup up. He must look stupid.

"I wasn't gone," he says. " I was with you." He isn't lying. He remembers all of that, no haze, no wall of water, no seat at the fireside. He had submitted but he'd been there. Nothing Jaskier had done had sent him down inside of himself. It had been too fast and not hard enough to work like that.

"Oh," Jaskier says, confused. He doesn't stop rubbing Geralt's chest with one hand, but does take the cup back from Geralt with his other.

Freed from his duty, Geralt lets his hand drop. He tries to explain.

“It wasn’t enough to make me...” he shrugs, lacking the right word for it. “I only go fast when it hurts, and hands on a bruise doesn’t hurt me very much.”

“Is it better, when it’s fast?”

Geralt nearly says yes without considering it. A few years ago he would have said yes, and meant it. When it hurts and it’s fast he doesn’t have to think about whether he’ll get his throat slit, or what the person thinks of him or his kind. He hardly ever even has to think about whether or not he’ll come. He just takes what he gets as it’s given to him and deals with the consequences when he’s on his own again. 

But now that he’s had the slower slide a few times, yes isn’t the easy answer. He wasn’t really hurt in the fight with the centipede, and he definitely wasn’t hurt in Cintra, but he had still gone down and stayed there for as long as Jaskier wanted.

“I don’t know,” he settles on.

Jaskier raises the cup to his mouth, but doesn’t drink. He’s clearly brimming with questions. Geralt waits uneasily for him.

Finally, Jaskier takes a polite sip of his tea. He strokes the flat part of Geralt’s chest one more time before letting the cup rest there. It’s fortunate he’s still got his hand on it because Geralt takes a rocky breath at the sudden heat on his skin, sensitive after all the rubbing. 

“You’ve given me much to think about,” Jaskier says as he leans down for a kiss. His mouth and the cup leave two hot circles on Geralt’s skin. 

*

"I have a question," Jaskier says. They're climbing the mountain where Geralt was told the griffin lives, Roach between them. Geralt is sure the griffin's made its lair on the southside of the mountain, for the sun and the vantage point over the valley, but the slope isn't as sheer this way, and there's a plateau they can stop at for Geralt to do some scouting. 

"Uh-hhm." There's been no trace of the creature yet so Geralt's empty-headed, listening, scanning for anything that could trip Roach, but mostly just putting one foot in front of the other. 

"What is it about the act that pleases you?" Jaskier's tone is so mild the question barely penetrates. He could be asking how much Geralt cared for the sour plums they ate this morning.

"Hunting?" Geralt asks back.

Jaskier chuckles at him, as though he's being suddenly obtuse in the middle of a conversation they've been having this whole walk.

"No," he says, peering at Geralt over Roach's saddle. "About submitting. To me, I suppose, specifically, but to anyone."

A hundred thoughts flood to Geralt's mind, spanning indignation, embarrassment, confusion, arousal, relief. But they all flood out as fast as they came, leaving him empty-headed again, but uneasy about it. 

"Why are you-" he starts, looking around at the beautiful, rocky hillside, the sun on the dirt ahead of them. There is nothing about where they are that could spark this kind of question. "We're just walking."

"Part of travelling together is filling the time, Geralt," Jaskier says, and he may be not laughing at Geralt but he’s definitely amused. "And more importantly, I want to know how to make what we do the best it can be for you."

Something about that is like having a rock in his boot, digging into his heel with every step, even if it’s not painful. Jaskier mistakes his silence for stubbornness. 

“Geralt, please,” he says, exasperated but still smiling. “Just once, think with your cock instead of your brain and just tell me.”

The laugh that comes out of Geralt shakes him a little loose. 

"What we do is good. Everything," the fucking, the bed-sharing, just about every time Geralt has done what Jaskier wanted, "is good." Jaskier won't push him in the ways he's used to, but Geralt will respect his hesitance, even if he doesn’t fully understand it. 

"Very glad to hear it," Jaskier says. There's enough of a pause that Geralt believes he's safe, until Jaskier opens his mouth again. "I know you have some inclination towards pain, but do you like to be called anything?"

Geralt focuses back on his feet, one going in front of the other, so he doesn't have to look at the face that goes with Jaskier's gentle, eager probing tone. He knows what it looks like, what it means. 

"Like what?" He retreats into gruffness, glad to have Roach as a barrier between them. 

"Harlot, whore, things like that maybe," Jaskier suggests. "Or perhaps you'd like to be made to come to heel like a dog to its master. Or be a boy to his father. Does that appeal to you?"

The thought of Jaskier calling him _boy_ is so ludicrous he has to laugh. There have been times and places when words have been used against him, but it's practically white noise now, useless as a single tool. 

"It doesn't do much for me. People call me what they call me. I don't care." 

Jaskier makes an affirmative noise, the same he does when Geralt gives him some detail in a story he'll turn into a song. 

"Do you like to wait?" he asks next. "Be told what your fate is and have to hold out for it?"

"No," Geralt says, regretting allowing Jaskier to ask the first question, let all these other ones. "I've told you, there's never any time. And I don't - what do I need to know anything about it for? It just is what it is." No one in a dark room or an alley is agonizing over what they'll do with Geralt once they have him, whether they'll grind his cheek into the wall or choke him with their cock. And he doesn't care to know. Thinking it through is the last thing he wants. 

"Alright," Jaskier says, more cautiously. "I think I understand. Thank you for telling me. I know you don't care to, but knowing helps me."

Feeling more ruffled than the feathers on a griffin, Geralt focuses on the hill above them and getting there unscathed. 

*

The plateau is uneven and rocky, with little natural shelter, dotted with old bones. Sheep and human, when Geralt examines them. No feathers or fur scraps or dung, so this isn’t where the griffin makes its lair, but they can’t be too far off. 

Using the toe of his boot to send some bones tumbling down the mountainside, Jaskier asks, “When will you hunt the beast?”

Geralt squints higher up the mountain. “A day or two. It will have a nest facing the south. I have to find a way to it first, and make sure the villagers know what they saw.” The thief and thug that turned out to be a troll had been a lesson in trusting villagers’ eyes and tales. 

Jaskier raises his eyebrows at Geralt. He must remember the troll as well. He’s the one who had to push Geralt’s shoulder back into its socket after all, and listen to his grousing afterward. 

“I’ll help you prepare,” he says, sending another hill of bones sliding with his boot. 

*

After a day spent creeping along the south-facing part of the mountain, Geralt comes back to camp to the smell of Cat lingering in the air and the sight of Jaskier, his sleeves rolled up and his thick gloves on, carefully capping a vial.

“Cat?” Geralt asks, pulling his own gloves off. “It’s too dangerous to go after the griffin at night.”

Jaskier startles, but his hands stay steady on the vial. Between his fingers, the vial is only a third full of potion. 

Recovering his composure, curling his fingers around the vial, Jaskier says, “You finished the last of it.”

Geralt nods to Jaskier’s closed fist. “A third of a dose won’t do me much good. It’ll hardly last.”

Jaskier makes a meal of rolling his eyes as he walks to Geralt’s pack to produce another, full vial of Cat. He holds it out with a flourish. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “for not doing it precisely as you taught me. I didn’t take you for such a strict teacher.” He tucks the full vial into Geralt’s pack, keeping the other in his hand. 

It’s a shame to dirty a vial with wasted potion, but Geralt decides he doesn’t care enough to bother Jaskier with it when he could be getting out of his armour instead. 

“I’m not strict with you at all,” Geralt tells Jaskier, distracted by the buckle at his waist, how he’ll need to borrow Jaskier’s notebook to draw a map of the path to the griffin’s lair if he’s to fight it tomorrow, how hungry he is. 

Jaskier comes to help him with the buckle. He still has his gloves on, but he’s as dexterous as ever. From this close, Geralt can smell the smoke on his hair and the celandine he was chopping earlier to make Swallow and is struck by the good familiarity of it.

“I’m very grateful for that,” Jaskier laughs, loosening Geralt’s armour enough to get his hands on Geralt’s waist, rubbing his leathered thumbs on Geralt, not looking for an injury, just because he can.

Geralt doesn’t remember what they’re talking about and he doesn’t care to ask. He closes his eyes instead and relaxes.

*

In order to make it to the griffin's lair in the daylight, Geralt wakes early, when dawn is still just a dream. He pushes the covers off, but Jaskier's arm, slung over his belly, tightens, and Jaskier nestles his chilled face further into Geralt's neck. 

"I have to go," Geralt whispers. "I can’t fight the griffin on a cliff in the darkness."

Jaskier grunts like Geralt is hurting him, but loosens his arm at least. 

Geralt's armour is set out, and his pack is full of Jaskier's potions, and his trophy hook and the bloodstained rope that goes with it waiting for him. He puts on his cold armour with quick hands. He eats half the bread Jaskier laid out last night and considers lighting a fire, but decides against it. Jaskier doesn't need to be awake for hours. He can stay warm and safe in bed like a squirrel in winter.

Once he's dressed, he returns to the bedrolls, kneeling beside Jaskier, who’s lingering on the edge of consciousness. 

"Take care of Roach while I'm gone," he says, his bare hand on Jaskier's shoulder. 

"Mmhmm." Jaskier turns onto his back so he can blink blearily up at Geralt. He touches Geralt's shoulder too, hooking his fingers under a loose strap. He pulls at Geralt with those two fingers until Geralt bends to him. His mouth is dry against Geralt's, but he still gives Geralt a good kiss, deep and wandering. He sighs into it, pleased, and drags one of Geralt's hands down to rub over his cock. 

He's hard, easy to feel even under the thickness of the covers. He uses Geralt's hand to fondle himself while they kiss, mouths getting wetter and hotter. 

Geralt's armour doesn't feel as cold when Jaskier finally frees his mouth so he can drop his head back down to the pillow. Jaskier doesn't let his hand go though, still using it on his own cock, stretching up against it. 

"How long will you be gone?" he mumbles, voice rough. 

Geralt resists the urge to kiss him again, knowing it’ll mean a wasted day. 

"The day," he says, sounding just as rough.

Rubbing his thumb over Geralt's hand, making Geralt squeeze his cock, Jaskier asks, "Will you think of this?" He lifts his hips up, sighing again. 

It may get him killed, the thought of Jaskier, stretched out, shirt riding up, using Geralt's hand like his own on his cock, but, "Yes," Geralt says, every other word gone from his mouth. 

Jaskier can barely keep his eyes open, but he knows what he's doing, smiling, stroking Geralt's hand over his prick a few more times before pulling it off. He draws Geralt's hand, still curved to touch his cock, up to his mouth. He kisses Geralt's knuckles with his damp, warm mouth before letting him go. 

"Be safe," he says, and closes his eyes again, as if it never happened. 

*

Geralt thinks of nothing but Jaskier, his hand, his mouth, his tricks, until he reaches the southside of the mountain, where the ground all but disappears and signs of the griffin start to appear. Bones, picked clean of their marrow, talon marks gouged onto the side of the mountain, stray feathers, deep brown, tipped in black. 

He finds the griffin lounging in the sun, like a cat on the front steps of a house. Eyes closed against the light, tufted tail thumping on a human skull. It's a majestic sight, even more so when the creature opens its golden eyes and screams at him loud enough that Jaskier must hear it on the other side of the mountain. It rises, shaking out its wings. Bones tumble down the mountain as it runs at him, wicked claws digging into the dirt, its beak snapping. Geralt holds his ground. 

*

It's still day when he returns, but barely. He could have, and perhaps should have, spent the night in the griffin's cave, but he would have only had the griffin's head and mounds of bones for company. It's better to return to the camp to the sight of Jaskier combing Roach's coat and the smell of hot food on the fire. 

"I'm back," Geralt says, dropped the hooked griffin's head on the ground. 

"Oh!" Jaskier lifts the comb off Roach's shoulder, where years ago there had been a scar, but no more. "I was starting to wonder."

He drops the comb on the ground carelessly and embraces Geralt, dust and blood and all. "I trust that it went well?"

Once the griffin's head had been cut from its body, Geralt had drank some of the Swallow Jaskier had made for him, but still, he's tired from the climb, from the fight, from the return. His head dips close to the crook of Jaskier's neck, but he doesn’t quite let himself have that rest. 

"Almost fell off the damn mountain a few times," he grumbles. "No thanks to you."

Jaskier's delight is palpable, despite how much he tries to stifle it. He rubs Geralt's back raggedly. "Left an impression, did I?"

Geralt grunts, stepping away from Jaskier to start pulling his armour off. He moves slowly, even though he's on broad ground. Jaskier watches him from a distance. 

"Did it not go well?" he asks, once Geralt's free of his armour and swords.

Geralt gestures to the head, the griffin's glazed eyes and bloodied beak. "It's dead. I'm alive."

"But you're not well."

"I was distracted." Jaskier's mouth turns down, so Geralt says, "By you, by the height, the thinness of the air. My armour. It wasn't a fight well-fought."

"Ah," Jaskier says, like that explains it. He bends to pick up Roach's comb and brings it to Geralt. "Why don't you take over for me here. The fire needs tending." He doesn't touch Geralt again, but his voice has gone to that soft, fond place once more. 

Either happy to see Geralt back whole, or happy to be brushed, Roach thumps her muzzle into his chest. Geralt brings the brush up to her strong, smooth shoulder. He brushes her for a while, getting into the rhythm of it, until the memory of being pinned to the side of the cliff by a half-grown griffin fades. 

*

The thought passes over Geralt’s mind while they eat, while Jaskier helps pry him out of the remainder his battered armour. Geralt returning from a fight. Their bodies crashing together, Jaskier’s hands rough on him, his tone rougher. There’s desire in Geralt, simmering, but this time it’s overpowered by his exhaustion. Jaskier must sense it in him, because all he does is touch Geralt with soft hands, and say good night into the scratched skin on the back of Geralt’s shoulder.

*

With the griffin dead, there's no reason for them to stay on the mountain. It's colder and windier than the valley below, and they won’t get paid until they make their way back to the town. And yet, Jaskier seems disinclined to leave.

"It's nice," he says the next day, watching the sun rise pink over the valley as the wind ruffles his hair. "Very peaceful. The coin will keep. We can relax for a day or two." 

That's not necessarily true, but Geralt can't very well leave him on this mountain. He wants his money, but he can't complain about the solitude. He’s still feeling unsettled though, ill-fitting in his skin. No matter the fineness of the sunrise or the crispness of the breeze, he finds himself longing for a mug of strong ale, an alley or a brothel. The itch inside Geralt that begs for harsh treatment rises.

Jaskier, generally eager to see people and sleep in a proper bed, seems content to stay here on this barren plateau. It's a fine sight, Jaskier relaxed, but it doesn’t help Geralt any, the itch beneath his skin increasing at the sight.

The problem is, Geralt's never asked for it, lacks the proper words. He’s always just had a knack for finding the right people.

"I want to go," is the best he can do, saying it as they eat their midday meal. 

Jaskier has his spoon in his mouth. "Hmm?"

"This was...fine," Geralt says, putting his full bowl down. "But I need to get back.”

Jaskier pulls the spoon from his mouth, puts it in his bowl instead. “To do what?”

To get bruises in the shape of hands, fingers, heels. To have his mouth stretched to soreness. To be used, to not have to worry or think about it. 

Geralt looks down at his bowl, fat shimmering on the surface of the stew. He regrets speaking, belly heavy despite its emptiness. 

Jaskier puts his own bowl down between his boots. "Geralt?" He speaks quietly, with concern. 

Submit, Jaskier had said before. When he'd wanted to know what Geralt liked. He hadn’t stuttered or stumbled over the word. 

"I don't," Geralt says, "know how to say it."

He keeps his eyes on his bowl, looking into it like the answer will appear there. None does, not even the word _fool_ , which Geralt knows to be true. 

Jaskier gets up and comes to stand before him. With a careful hand he brushes Geralt's hair to the side so he can put his palm on Geralt's nape. His hand is cold and heavy, soothing against the heat of Geralt's skin, the feelings churning just under the surface. 

"I know," he says, although he shouldn't. Geralt hardly said anything, and what he did say was almost nonsense. 

Geralt's neck tenses under Jaskier's hand. "You don't-I didn't say. I still haven't."

"I could have guessed," Jaskier says, petting his thumb over Geralt's throat. "I know you well enough by now I could have guessed at what you need. I'll gladly give it to you, if you want it from me."

Oil on his skin, the smell of smoke in hair, the weight of Jaskier's hands on him, replacing the weight of everything else. 

"Yes," Geralt says, and even saying that feels like divulging a terrible secret, like tilting on the edge of a cliff. 

But Jaskier sounds so pleased when he says, "Good," like Geralt saying nothing more than _yes_ is a gift. He squeezes the tense nape of Geralt’s neck so tightly the muscles have no choice but to give. 

*

Now that Jaskier knows, Geralt expects – hopes – to be pushed to the ground, or against a tree, or into their bedrolls. Jaskier says he doesn’t want to hurt Geralt, but he has no trouble being rough to the edge of pain when it suits him. 

He waits, head bent, for Jaskier to use the grip on his neck to drag Geralt where he wants him. Instead, Jaskier’s grip gentles, his thumb sweeping again. Apparently roughness doesn’t suit him now.

“Finish eating,” Jaskier orders him, “then wash. Come to me when you’re ready. Take your time. We have plenty of daylight left.”

He leaves Geralt there, scraping the last of his own meal into the fire before he strides off, set to his own purpose. 

*

Geralt finishes his meal with all the pleasure of a prisoner, eyes on the fire like that was an order too. When he finishes, he trades his bowl for their cake of soap, and staring at the fire for staring at the trickling mountain stream. This high up, the water is frigid, numbing Geralt's hands, chilling his skin. As Geralt soaps himself, he checks for wounds and bruises from his fight, and isn't sure how to feel when he finds almost none. He isn't sure how to feel about any of it. He asked for this, said he would trust Jaskier, and yet he still feels how he did his first year on the Path. Unsure, jumpy. 

To finish cleaning himself and bring some warmth back to his body, he scrubs himself with sand from the stream. The slushy scrape leaves his skin pink and sensitive, and feels good, the sensation on his skin overriding his busy thoughts. When he dunks himself in the water to rinse off, it’s like being pricked with a thousand needles, just for a moment. 

Jaskier said for him to take his time, so he dries in the sun and the wind, his skin still feeling well-touched. He considers meditating, but the thought doesn't sit right. As soon as he kneels his thoughts tumble around him, what will happen, how it will happen, if it will change things. He dresses instead, and tries to pace himself as he walks back to the camp. 

Things have been tidied, the cooking tools put away, their bedrolls laid out flat, Roach well-occupied by a leafy bush out of the way. Jaskier's there, feeding the fire enough wood to keep it hot and bright for a while. He's in his clothes from before, but he has his shirtsleeves rolled up. Geralt almost expects to see him with his gloves on, the ones he wears when he brews potions. But his hands are bare, not even a single ring. Geralt looks up from Jaskier's hands to his warm, knowing smile. 

"Are you ready?" he asks. 

Feeling hot and strange, Geralt only shrugs.

Jaskier steps away from the sparking fire. "Is that a no?"

“No. It’s-”

“You can say no.” Jaskier’s come closer, but he’s still out of reach, holding his hands behind himself. 

“I know that,” Geralt says, frustrated. “I just don’t want to talk about it. You ask too many questions.” He already feels raw, just from having too much time to think about it. If Jaskier makes him speak about it again he’ll go inside-out. 

Jaskier opens his mouth to respond to that, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he comes to Geralt, steps into his space, and kisses him. It's firm, the kind of kiss that demands to be met with softness, obedience. Geralt does what Jaskier’s mouth is asking, letting his mouth go soft and open, feeling like he's got his toes on solid ground for the first time since he killed the griffin. 

Yet, Jaskier doesn't grip him by the neck or sweep him into the laid-out bedrolls. His hands find Geralt's bare forearms and stroke them, wrist to elbow, in long, ticklish lines. The sensation is too soft after the sand and the cold water. Geralt squirms, and then shudders when Jaskier follows the lines again, with his nails this time. 

"Mmhmm," Jaskier hums at Geralt's shudder, the way he grips at Jaskier's arse. He pulls his mouth away just long enough to say, "You need this," into Geralt's. He is, blessedly, not asking. 

Geralt doesn't answer, only sucks Jaskier's tongue into his mouth and pushes his hips against Jaskier's. He's not hard yet but his body already wants everything Jaskier's willing to give. 

Jaskier drags out the kiss, scratching his nails over Geralt's arms as Geralt rubs up against Jaskier, Geralt's focus on his own body and every intersection with Jaskier's. Mouth, hands, cock. He wants more, breaking the kiss to lick at Jaskier's throat instead, tasting his sweat, the place Jaskier must have rubbed his herb-coated fingers against while he was cooking.

"Should have told you not to dress after you washed," Jaskier says to the sky, using a fist to pull Geralt's shirt up his torso. "What a waste to have you dressed when you look the way you do naked."

His nails drag up Geralt's side, more sharp lines that make Geralt's cock jump in his breeches. 

"Come on," he says, finally taking a hold of Geralt's neck. "Take your clothes off."

He squeezes Geralt’s nape once before letting go and stepping back. The air between them feels colder than the water in the stream, waking Geralt up from his haze enough to use his hands. 

He doesn't bother using them well, just tugs on the laces on his shirt and his breeches until he has enough space to pull his shirt over his head and push his breeches to his knees. Jaskier watches him struggle out of his boots, crossing his arms expectantly. 

The look on Jaskier's face fills Geralt's blood with heat, making his face and throat burn and his cock fill and lift, no matter the wind blowing across the exposed plateau. All those things Jaskier says, _Good_ and _Thank you_ , and he looks at Geralt like Geralt's making him wait for something. 

"Go kneel," Jaskier says, gesturing with a casual knuckle to the bedrolls. 

The bedrolls are padded enough to sleep well on, but having his weight on his knees means Geralt feels the stones underneath, some round, some sharp, all grinding into him as he takes his position. And the fire Jaskier built up only warms his front. The wind still chills his back, his thighs, his arse. His skin prickles everywhere. 

Jaskier didn't say how he should kneel, nor has anyone else ever, so Geralt spreads his knees to hold his balance and puts his hands on his thighs, meditative. He couldn’t meditate now, even if Jaskier asked him, even if he tried to do it for himself. He’s too wound up.

Geralt closes his eyes against the heat of the fire and to hear Jaskier better, sifting through their packs, pulling out items, putting some back. Geralt keeps his eyes closed even after Jaskier has joined him on the bedroll.

"Like a painting," Jaskier tells him, kneeling down. He drops a few things near Geralt's shin, little weights and barely dent the bedroll. Geralt can hear them sloshing minutely. "Now what to do with you?"

Geralt shakes his head. He doesn't know, doesn't care. Jaskier knows he can do whatever he wants. 

Jaskier chuckles. "I wasn't really asking you." He squeezes Geralt's hip. "I can't make you talk, but you can't make me be quiet. Understand?" There it is, the thin sharp wire in the middle of Jaskier's voice, the thing that wraps around Geralt's guts when he speaks with it.

Geralt nods. Jaskier tips Geralt's face from the fire with fingers on his chin so they can kiss. It's soft, no bite at all, but they’re both panting once it’s over. 

Jaskier pulls away, and Geralt can feel the shift of his weight, the movement of the air around them as Jaskier reaches for one of the things he dropped on the bedroll, pulling the cork. It's oil, Geralt recognizes by the smell. Usually when they fuck they use a thicker balm. Geralt wants to ask, but bites his tongue instead when Jaskier pours it onto the notch of his throat, letting it run down his breastbone. It's enough to reach his navel, running into the dip there. He grunts at the slip of it, opening his eyes, squinting against the sunlight and the fire.

Jaskier corks the vial and drops it again. "It’s been some years, but I seem to remember you liking this," he says, putting one palm after the other against the oil on Geralt’s skin and pulling them upwards. The hair on Geralt's chest almost tingles, going the wrong way, and Jaskier's oiled palms sliding over his nipples make them pinch tight. He tenses, then relaxes. It’s a soft touch, definitely not enough to hurt, but Geralt’s tuned into it, hungry for the sensation.

Jaskier spreads the oil all across Geralt's chest and belly, taking care to even slick cuts of Geralt’s hips and his flanks with his thumbs. It really has been years, but the firm pressure is the same, the drag of Jaskier’s calluses familar. While his hands work the oil in, Jaskier mouths at Geralt's dry throat, making warm, pleased sounds. He doesn't touch Geralt's cock, even though a little oil has managed to slip down to collect against the base of it. Even without any attention Geralt’s cock is so hard its purplish-red at the tip, wet without any oil.

Geralt grunts when Jaskier thumbs his nipple, pressing into the root of it, and groans when Jaskier bends to suck it. His wet tongue slides over the oil, friction gone, replaced with the deep pull of suction. He keeps going, and eventually the pressure is so great Geralt tries to squeeze his thighs together – just to get some relief.

He pulls back, mouth shining with oil. "Uh-uh. As you were."

Geralt settles his knees apart again, stones on the ground finding their places on Geralt's numb knees. He wants to move badly, but not as badly as he wants to obey Jaskier.

"Now, close your eyes," Jaskier says, "and open your mouth." He tips Geralt's chin up with two fingers.

Geralt does as he's told, tip of his tongue resting on his teeth in case Jaskier wishes to see it. He'll show it to Jaskier if he asks, would suck on his fingers just for the sensation of it. There’s shame wound up in his willingness – he’s not a dog – but he’s been here before with Jaskier, wants it again.

Jaskier doesn’t ask to see his tongue like Geralt expects. Kissing Geralt's jaw, his cheek, Jaskier picks up one of the weights by Geralt's knee instead.

"One swallow," he warns, already tipping liquid into Geralt's mouth. Geralt swallows as the surprising, familiar taste of Cat coats his tongue.

"What," he says when his mouth is clear, his blood already going hot and toxic as his eyelids light up blood-pink..

Jaskier kisses his itching cheek. "Shh. Just let me. Keep your eyes closed." He reaches for Geralt's cock with one hand and the oil with the other. He drizzles a little on the head of Geralt's cock with the foreskin pulled down and then strokes upward, enveloping the head in slick softness.

Geralt grunts, confused. He doesn't understand but can't ask before Jaskier kisses him again, tongue going deep into his mouth, hungry.

"That taste," he murmurs, sucking on Geralt's lip, stroking Geralt's cock slowly. "Worth it for how you look. Can you see anything?"

Only the veins in his eyelids. Geralt shakes his head. The sun is warm on his face and all wrong against the taste of Cat coating his tongue.

"Why?" he asks, leaning back so Jaskier can fist the base of his cock, rub his slippery fingers over Geralt's balls.

"That’s not for you to worry about," Jaskier says. "Just be good and do as you’re told."

He does something twisting with his fist that threatens to snatch the tongue out of Geralt’s head. Geralt nods, apprehensions forgotten.

Jaskier's fingers worm deeper between his thighs. 

"Lean forward," he tells Geralt. "Hands down."

Geralt does as Jaskier wants, putting his fists into the bedroll, leaning some of his weight on them. He hangs his head as Jaskier's fingers go over his hole and in without hesitation. He spreads his knees further without being told to, so Jaskier's fingers can fill him up better.

Jaskier hums, spreading his fingers as he draws them back, so it aches, and then holding them together to slide back in, a relief. Geralt groans.

"Usually it's not so easy," Jaskier says, put-on wonder in his voice. "Usually I have to work at you at least a little."

It's not true. Geralt likes to fuck in all kinds of ways, and his body is good for it. But the way Jaskier says it, lightly mocking, makes Geralt cringe and his cock throb.

"You must be dying for a cock," Jaskier continues. "Will mine be enough for you?"

"Yes," Geralt says, as his hole clenches around Jaskier's crooking fingers. His fists on the bedroll clench too. 

Jaskier shuffles closer, his hard cock in his trousers rubbing over Geralt's elbow. 

"I hope so," he murmurs into Geralt's ear. "We're alone up here so it's all I've got for you."

His fingers find Geralt's prostate and Geralt's elbows almost go out. His cock sways between his thighs, dripping. 

"Please," Geralt says, but Jaskier pays him no mind, apparently too busy driving Geralt out of his mind with his fingers to listen. Jaskier keeps going, Geralt holding the position as well as he can as his hole is made sloppy and loose, and his cock grows tight and almost painful. Geralt tries to hold himself still , the task increasingly challenging as the feeling builds. He doesn't open his eyes, forcing himself to rely on his own breathing and heartbeat to keep any sense of himself. But even that goes murky, leaving him swimming in sensation.

He's gasping for air, the sensations stealing his breath when Jaskier's fingers slow inside of him.

"You don't want to beg more?" he asks. “Am I to live off one single _please_?”

Geralt shakes his head. He doesn't feel capable of speech. That's always the first thing to leave him, words melting like sugar in his mouth. He turns his sweaty face to wipe it on his shoulder. 

Jaskier makes a considering noise, but pulls his fingers out anyway. They trail forward, over Geralt's tense balls, fondling his hurting cock before leaving him entirely. Geralt hears the sound of wet fingers on fabric, and then on a cock. Jaskier grunts harshly, in shock, pleasure, or something else Geralt can’t place. Geralt turns his head to the sound, his tongue flicking out to licking his lips, as if he could taste Jaskier’s cock just from that.

Jaskier chuckles and runs the tip of his cock over Geralt's forearm. It's warm and wet, smells of pre-come. Geralt opens his mouth to smell it better, catching the musky scent of skin too. He sticks his tongue out, hopeful, but Jaskier ignores that too, kneeing his way behind Geralt. He takes a moment to smooth over the tight muscles in Geralt's thighs, his lower back. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him, inspecting him like one would a pet, or prey. His stomach twists and flips. 

"Oh, there it is," Jaskier sighs as he finally pushes the head of his cock into Geralt's hole. He grips Geralt's hips and draws him back instead of pushing himself, until there's nowhere for Geralt to go, full of Jaskier’s cock to the balls. Jaskier makes a satisfied sound.

"It's not just your face that looks lovely," he says. "It's too bad you can't see how you look here." He slips his thumb over where they're connected, his cock stretching Geralt's arse out.

There are, Geralt knows, ways that he could see what Jaskier is seeing. Mirrors, glimpsing spells. He's never seen himself that way, but he can imagine it: the arch of the scar on his left arsecheek, his hole, oily, red around Jaskier's cock. He almost opens his eyes, startled by the clarity of the image in his mind. 

"Yeah," he says, squeezing his eyes closed tighter instead. The image fades into darkness. Geralt wonder what Jaskier’s face looks like, if he’s pleased with Geralt. 

"Mmhmm." Jaskier pulls halfway out, his thumb hooking into Geralt's rim. He slides back in slowly, indulging himself. Geralt feels his cock dragging against his thumb and bites his lip. 

He drops his head down, puts his mouth against his arm. "You can fuck me hard."

"I can, can I?" Jaskier mutters. His hips do another slow roll, out and then in. "You'll let me?"

Geralt nods, biting his bicep to dull the sharpness of the pleasure. He shifts his knees and fists apart to brace himself for it. There are so many pebbles digging into him through the bedroll, each one another confusing pain-pleasure. 

Jaskier pulls all the way out to the crown of his cock, and then slides in to the base, groaning while he does it. He ends up pressed against Geralt's back, the fine linen of his shirt rough on Geralt's skin. His brings his hand around to get his fist around Geralt's cock, gives it the same kind of long, slow stroke he just did into Geralt's arse. 

He kisses Geralt's earlobe and then tongues it. "I think I’ll fuck you how I like, " he says into Geralt's ear, hot-breathed, voice strained, “and you’ll take it and thank me for it.”

He chuckles a little when he says it, but it hits Geralt like a slap. He’s never spoken to Geralt like that, as if Geralt’s nothing to him but a thing to fuck, and privileged to get such careless treatment. It hurts more than a boot in the back or a word like _whore_. 

"Will you," Jaskier asks, silky now, staying still inside Geralt now but stroking his cock in that maddening rhythm, "thank me?'

Geralt would say yes to anything asked in that tone of voice, if Jaskier hadn’t stolen his voice away with his words. He nods instead, putting his weight on his fists so he doesn't get a hand around Jaskier's to try to make him to jerk Geralt the way Geralt wants.. 

"Good," Jaskier murmurs, squeezing the tip of Geralt's cock tightly in his palm. When Geralt's cock twitches in his fist, he kisses Geralt's ear, saying, "Good, good," again.

He strokes Geralt's cock, their hips snug together, until Geralt is half out of his mind. His own cock feels so good, covered in oil and pre-spend, that he can hardly remember he has one in his arse too until he starts fucking into Jaskier's fist, the motion of his hips dragging Jaskier’s cock halfway out of him. 

Geralt freezes, moaning, caught between Jaskier's cock and hand. Jaskier finishing the motion for him, pulling Geralt back with a firm hand on the root of his cock as he fucks into Geralt's arse.

"Yes," he says, "yes," as he keeps going, finding a steady rhythm to fuck Geralt. 

This isn't the first time he's fucked Geralt, but usually he's excited, talkative, handsy. Now he grips Geralt by the hip and the cock, fucking Geralt's arse like he's measuring a beat, controlling himself. 

Unable to see, Geralt has to imagine how Jaskier looks instead. Intense-eyed, like when they play cards, biting his lip because that's how he holds himself back, the silk trousers he insisted upon bringing up the mountain bunched around his knees, the hem of his shirt oily where its getting caught between them. Geralt groans, frustrated. He wishes Jaskier hadn't made him keep his eyes closed, wishes he were on his back instead so he could open his eyes and _see_.

Jaskier mistakes his frustration for something more base in nature. 

"Shh," he murmurs, breath cooling Geralt's shoulder. He strokes Geralt's cock a few times, trying to soothe even as his hips keep up their even, frustrating pace. "Are you going to come like this?"

Even without much cock stroking, Geralt could, if they fuck for long enough. But he doesn't want it to end that way. He shakes his head, resettling his hips so Jaskier sinks deeper into his arse.

Behind him, Jaskier shudders. "Good," he says senselessly, in pleasure. He doesn’t mean anything by it, but the word is like cold water on a burn. Geralt shivers hearing it, worse so when Jaskier pulls out, dropping Geralt's cock. 

"Jaskier-" If his senses weren't so scrambled, he'd know better where Jaskier is, but without his cock, his hand, the press of his thighs, Geralt feels lost.

"Shh," Jaskier says again, but without the soothing kindness this time, and hooks one of his thumbs into Geralt's wet arse, pulling until it's sore. He uses the hook of his thumb to guide Geralt's into a higher kneeling position. Geralt follows helplessly, thighs trembling as he sits up, listening to his own heart hammering and the faint sound of Jaskier jerking his own cock, much quicker than he was fucking Geralt. 

People have come on Geralt before, his mouth, his chest, his cock. People with something to prove to themselves or Geralt. Jaskier has nothing to prove to Geralt. Geralt knows this, doesn’t need or want to heat of come on his skin. He has baser desires. 

"Fuck me," he chokes out just as Jaskier feeds his cock back into Geralt's hole, cockhead slipping past his own thumb. Jaskier sighs like he's hearing a beautiful song, and then holds Geralt by the hips and fucks him like he's a dog. 

Like this, they line up so Jaskier can stroke deep enough Geralt can almost taste his cock, and fast enough that it burns. 

"Enough for you?" Jaskier pants, slapping Geralt's hip with his sticky palm. 

It stings. Geralt's balls throb. He could come like this, strings of pre-come dripping from his cock. Geralt can feel when they fall, hitting the inside of his thigh, the bedroll beneath him. He nods, hanging his head to take it better. His eyes, sensitive from the Cat, water. The brisk wind coasting along the plateau cools his tears and his pre-spend. Geralt notices, but he's so hot inside and out that the chill is a pleasure.

Jaskier comes before he means to. Geralt knows by how his groan breaks in the middle, his hands scrabbling at Geralt's sweaty hips, his hips going dogged. Geralt groans along with him, feeling himself go slick inside, even easier to fuck. 

"Fuck," Jaskier says, full of pleasure and regret, "oh fuck, Geralt." 

Geralt turns his blind face to Jaskier and shoves his hips back, aching for it. 

Jaskier pulls out, steadying hands on Geralt's scar and his own cock. He rubs himself over the crack of Geralt's arse a few times, wetting Geralt with his come from the small of his back to his balls and then he pulls away, sighing. His hand on Geralt's arse turns gentle, thumb resting in the scar from a noonwraith’s scythe. 

Geralt's knees threaten to give out and his heart pounds. After the rough fuck, Jaskier's gentle hand is too soft, chafing worse than sand. He furiously wipes his wet face on his bicep. 

"Fuck me," he begs. He doesn't have the words for what he really needs. His voice trembles terribly. Just saying those two words makes his stomach drop.

Jaskier's thumb pauses its stroke against his scar. He takes a deep breath.

The moment feels long and cold to Geralt. With his eyes closed and his mind empty, he has no idea how long it lasts.

Jaskier pulls his head back by the hair, grinding his thumb into the thick scar tissue on Geralt's arse. The pain is sharp, both Geralt's scalp and his skin protesting. He has to follow the hand in his hair or risk losing some of it. Jaskier pulls his body back, exposing his belly and his cock to the cold wind. Jaskier holds him there until the wind is like pins on his cock, and then catches Geralt's cock in his slippery, warm fist. 

The pace he sets is brutal, like Geralt has wronged him for not coming yet. It's too fast for Geralt’s hips to keep up. He has to just take it. 

Jaskier pulls his head back further, Geralt's face to the sky. Even with his eyelids closed, his eyes burn, tears leaking. He doesn't wipe them away. His hands are too nerveless to do anything. Geralt barely knows where they are.

Grinding his soft cock against Geralt's dripping arse, biting the soft spot behind Geralt's ear, Jaskier says, "Open your eyes, Geralt." 

His voice is a brand hitting flesh, hot and sudden, inexorable. Geralt opens his eyes and the world is white and it burns. The pain is immense, matched only by the pleasure of Jaskier's fist on his cock. It hurts even after he shuts his eyes again, vision blackening, spotty with imaginary stars. 

He comes gasping, spend hitting his belly and the blanket beneath them, slicking the brutality out of Jaskier's strokes. He keeps his eyes closed but it still hurts, his eyes watering and burning.

Jaskier slows the pace of his hand, but barely, squeezing and tugging now to milk everything he can out of Geralt. Geralt's knees twitch, tempted to close, but he stays put, lets Jaskier take what he want, gives until his cock can't anymore. 

Jaskier rubs his dripping hand over the bottom of Geralt's belly and over his thighs, marking Geralt with his own spend. To Geralt, the smell is overwhelming, his come and Jaskier's, his sweat. It's so strong that even Jaskier must be able to smell it with his weak human nose. 

"There," Jaskier is saying while tears drip off of Geralt's jaws as he takes gasping breaths of the smell of their fuck. "There. Good, you're good." He's pushing his hips up against Geralt's arse again, but his cock is soft, just smearing stickiness over Geralt's thighs and crack. 

Geralt pushes back, rolling his hips clumsily. He's sore and tired and stupid, but he'll get on his belly or back now, whatever Jaskier wants. He spares a hand to rub his eyes, which are wet and itchy. Reflexively, he blinks, and immediately regrets it. 

The world is still blown white, shimmering where the fire is. Geralt groans, no longer shielded from the worst of the pain by the pleasure. He blinks again, foolishly trying to clear it. It only makes it worse.

"Here," Jaskier says, his voice well-used and gentle. "Shh. You'll be like this for a while."

He brings up his hand, still wet with oil and come, and puts it over Geralt's eyes. He's not afraid to press down tightly, sealing out the blistering sun, covered Geralt from eyebrows to nose. He holds Geralt like that, blinding him like a horse until Geralt relents, tipping his head back so he can put his face against Jaskier's neck. With his ear pressed to Jaskier's shoulder, Geralt can hear the beat of Jaskier's heart well enough to count each one while he breathes, surrounded by Jaskier's smell, sweat and smoke and herbs. He swallows down the lingering taste of Cat and opens his mouth, but his tongue is too clumsy to say _thank you._

**Author's Note:**

> Please come yell with me about sub!Geralt on tumblr: [crushcandles](https://crushcandles.tumblr.com/).


End file.
